


Let's Play a Love Game

by BatsaboutBats (theboxedfox), meaninglessblah



Series: Let's Play A Love Game [1]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Aftercare, Alternate Universe - Stripper/Exotic Dancer, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, BDSM Scene, Blow Jobs, Butt Plugs, Case Fic, Collars, Daddy Kink, Digital Art, Dubious Consent, Dubious Consent Due To Identity Issues, Embedded Images, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Gags, Glory Hole, Hurt/Comfort, Identity Porn, Implied/Referenced Underage Prostitution, Jason Todd is Red Hood, Light Bondage, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Minor Character Death, NSFW Art, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Sexual Abuse, Reconciliation, Riding Crops, Sex Work, Spanking, Strippers & Strip Clubs, Tim Drake is Red Robin, Underage Prostitution, Undercover, Undercover Missions
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-09
Updated: 2020-02-29
Packaged: 2020-11-28 09:41:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 112,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20964440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theboxedfox/pseuds/BatsaboutBats, https://archiveofourown.org/users/meaninglessblah/pseuds/meaninglessblah
Summary: When signs of a blackmarket organ trafficker floats up in Gotham Harbor, Jason and Tim find out that the victims had one thing in common: they both worked at a gay strip club. Determined to root out the traffickers, both decide to go undercover to solve the case. The only problem? Neither knows the other is working the case.





	1. Playboy Monday

Tim meets the manager’s stare over the stack of paperwork, resolving not to fidget as his unassuming gaze drags down Tim’s torso and hovers pointedly in his lap. He shuffles his hips in the uncomfortable plastic chair, trying his best to not project his discomfort at being appraised like a piece of meat. 

The older man’s gaze lowers back to the sheets of paper as he leafs through them, pulling out a comprehensive medical assessment form. “How’d you score on your physical?” 

“Fit as a fiddle,” Tim offers with his most brilliant smile. 

A hum from the manager as he skims through Tim’s STD screen. “You’re clean?” he prompts, and Tim nods. “Management requires a clean bill of health from employees.” 

Tim spreads his hands plaintively. “Cleaner than a nun’s rosary.” 

The man’s lip twitches in what could be amusement, but on his sour features comes across as a grimace. He drops Tim’s resume to the desktop, leaning back in his leather chair, and lifts a finger in a slow circle. “Alright, let’s see what you’ve got, kid.” 

Tim uncrosses his legs, shoving down the urge to wince as he stands and rotates on the stained carpet. It’s not a particularly provocative twirl, but then again it doesn’t need to be; the black leather shorts Steph had wrestled Tim into before his interview go a long way to accenting his slim legs and perky figure. His assets speak for themselves. 

The man doesn’t speak, just grunts contemplatively and motions for Tim to lift his shirt. He strips it off over his shoulders, dropping it into the chair and trying not to shiver in the chill. The manager seems much more impressed with Tim’s faint musculature, his narrow-waisted physique. 

“Alright,” the man concedes. “You make a decent twink... _ Teddy,_” he adds, consulting Tim’s cover letter. 

“Theodore,” Tim corrects, resisting the urge to reach for the shirt, if only so he can cover his very bared chest. 

“Not anymore you’re not,” the manager retorts without looking up. “All servers take on a persona; yours is Teddy Bare.” 

Tim blinks and effects an entreating smile. “I thought maybe I’d be a dancer-” 

The man barks a humorless laugh. “Hunks are dancers. Twinks are servers. Boys with your figure don’t bring in money on stage. You want to make tips, start thinking about how you’re going to play up your persona, Teddy.” 

Tim opens his mouth, closes it and lets his shoulders slump into an acquiescent line. “Yes, sir.” 

“Good,” the man barks immediately, straightening and rifling through the cluttered desk to unearth what looks like a flyer, which he flicks towards Tim. He snatches it from the air before it can reach the carpet, turning it over to inspect the glossy text. “We do themed days Monday through Sunday. Every second Sunday has a unique theme.” 

Tim inspects the schedule on the flyer for today. “Playboy Monday,” he reads, and glances up. The man doesn’t flinch under the scrutiny. 

“Yolanda will set you up with an outfit downstairs.” 

“Yolanda?” Tim prompts. 

“She’s our resident head queen,” the manager replies. “She oversees wardrobe. Go report to her and she’ll sort you out before we open at five.” 

Tim’s brows rise. “That’s early.” 

“Servers go out at five,” the man explains without any particular investment in the conversation, waving an absent hand through the air. “Dancers hit the stage at six. We roll through til three a.m.” 

That’s the first piece of good news Tim’s heard thus far; with his vigilante alter-ego chewing through acceptable nighttime hours, night shifts are more suited to his established sleep schedule. Which means he’s in good stead to slip seamlessly into his undercover role. 

“Servers do clean up, and if the joint’s freshened up by four, you can clock out. But if I open doors to find even a speck out of place, you’ll scrub everything from top to bottom, including wardrobe. We don’t employee slackers. This is a highly sought-after position,” the manager advises sagely, a streak of warning to his hard tone. Tim severely doubts that work as a glorified waitress minus the respectable uniform is top of the list for most individuals. “Daydreamers don’t last long. You want to stay here? You’ve got to earn it with elbow grease and maintaining that perky ass. You hit the gym regularly?” 

Tim nods, a private smile curling his lips. “I work out,” he hedges, his mind conjuring images of Dick’s intense rooftop training regime and Damian’s gruelling katas. 

“Good. Don’t forget - the dancers might be the product we’re selling here, but you’re the decoration. A touch of class. Keep yourself in shape, or you’ll be pointed at the door. And one last thing-” 

Tim glances up from the flyer to hold the manager’s gaze, giving him his fullest, most sincere attention. 

“We’ve got a strict look-don’t-touch policy. Patrons don’t touch the performers, and the performers don’t touch the patrons. That means you keep your hands to yourself unless it’s part of the act. You don’t take clients on business property. You want to suck cock, do it off the clock. Company rooms are not for personal use, am I understood?” 

“Yes, sir,” Tim answers solemnly, internally reeling at that mental image. 

The man waves a hand towards the office door, and Tim leans back to snatch his shirt off the chair. “Head downstairs for wardrobe and makeup. Ask for-” 

“Yolanda,” Tim recalls, and smiles in what he hopes in a grateful simper. “I won’t let you down, sir.” 

“Whatever, kid. Doors open in forty-five minutes.” 

* * *

‘Backstage’ is a narrow flight of stairs hidden behind a sheer black curtain, that descends beneath the stages into what is colloquially referred to as the Pit. Tim ducks around the sparse sound and lighting crew, bustling past him with brimming energy drinks and overworked grimaces. 

The place breathes like a production set. Every person that passes Tim looks twenty seconds too late, expressions stricken with latent panic as they rush to man stations. He presses into the velvet curtained wall to avoid a dancer in six-inch heels that stalks past with a ludicrous set of curls and two rigid bunny ears sprouting from his crown. 

Edging up to the first open door reveals two rows of lightbulb-studded vanity sets laden with feather boas, an arsenal of makeup and enough glitter to paint Capitol Hill. Nearly every seat is occupied by an absolute smorgasbord of beefy men, and Tim takes a moment to let his gaze linger on the brazenly exposed pecs, the firm ridges of abdominals, and the appetizing selection of facial features. 

Someone grips his bicep with the sharp sting of fake nails, and Tim straightens with a flush of guilt to meet the heavily accented lashes of a drag queen. “Can’t be going in there, dollface,” she purrs in a low, warning timbre as she pulls him out of the path of a woman laden with several pairs of heels. “Dancers only; servers enter through the back.” 

“I’m looking for Yolanda,” Tim stutters, voice suring when her bejewelled eyes clear with understanding. “I’m new. She’s supposed to fix me up?” 

“Oh, honey, why didn’t you say so?” she simpers, and drags him down the corridor at a brutally unrelenting pace. She easily clears six feet in her heels, and Tim finds himself walking double-time to match her broad strides. “Come with me, we’ll get you sorted out.” 

The drag queen deposits him in a room at the back that is swamped by rows and rows of hangers overladen with a dizzying array of costumes. Every other minute one of the dancers bursts through to rifle through a particular rack before bustling back out of the room. 

“Landa!” the drag queen bellows into the rows with a volume that makes Tim jump. “In need of a wardrobe fix for-” She pauses, glancing down at him with a warm smile. “What did you say your name was, honey?” 

“Teddy,” Tim offers, taking the manager’s advice. 

She straightens and shouts, “For Teddy! The new kid!” 

“Server or dancer?” comes the muffled reply, though it’s definitely growing firmer. 

A woman materialises amongst a row of sequin-studded costumes, tossing her voluminous marcel curls over her bare shoulders. She catches sight of Tim, batting her long green-tipped lashes as she approaches. 

“That’s got to be a twink or I’m a natural blonde,” she declares broadly, dark eyes scanning Tim with reverence. Tim frowns at her tight ebony locks, trying to discern if the roots are painted. She catches him staring and releases a pealing laugh, catching his hands in hers. “Oh, sweetie, you’re too much. You’re the new server, yes?” 

Tim nods. “Yeah. I’m supposed to get an outfit before we open?” 

She knocks a crooked finger under his chin fondly. “Absolutely, sweetcheeks. Let me get your piece. You can take dressing room one; it should be empty. Blue, get him some stilettos, would you?” 

“Standard black?” the drag queen - Blue - calls as she disappears into the rows again. Tim lets himself be herded insistently towards a narrow dressing room. 

“Of course!” Yolanda yells back, rifling loudly. 

Blue gestures absently to the whole of him, bending to snatch a pair of dark pumps from the nearby rack. “Strip down, honey. No time to be admiring your reflection.” 

Tim blushes, reaching up to tug off the shirt he’d hastily shrugged back into, and sets it on the lone chair in the corner. Getting the leather booty shorts off is more of a struggle, and in the end Tim gets farthest by shimmering them down his thighs. Blue shakes her head, lips pursed when Tim turns attentively back for his outfit. 

“Mnhmm, honey. You’re going to need to lose the thong too.” 

“What?” Tim squawks, brow pinching. 

Blue shrugs as Yolanda bustles towards them with a vibrant gleam in her eyes. Brandished in her fist is a slip of material that looks objectively _ miniscule, _ and Tim smothers a wince. 

“Here you go, sweetcheeks. Slip into this and we’ll get you shipped off to makeup.” 

He takes the sheer material that looks to be more tight-knit mesh and lace than actual coverage, and exhales in the relative privacy when Yolanda tugs the curtains shut behind herself. Holding it up for a brief inspection reveals that it’s a teddy bodysuit, pulled together with three ribbons up what Tim hopes is the spine. 

It’s not until Tim yanks the fabric up to his thighs and goes to slip his arms through the shoulderless sleeves that he pauses with simmering alarm. “Yolanda?” he calls. “I think there’s been a mistake.” 

She materialises between the curtains with a steeply crooked, inquiring brow, and drags her gaze up the length of him. “What’s up, buttercup?” 

Tim looks at her incredulously, and swivels to reveal his very exposed ass where it’s framed by the teddy bodysuit. Her gaze traces the neat little black bows that sit across the dimples of his lower back and the curve of his spine with blank certainty. 

“What’s the problem?” she prompts. 

Tim gapes. “I’m- this is- Is this all there _ is?_” he demands, gesturing to the intensely exhibitionist cut of the lingerie. 

“Oh!” she chirps with realisation, and disappears briefly to retrieve something. Tim tries to let his ratcheting pulse sink back down to a manageable level, and he almost succeeds before she rematerialises, brandishing a tapered object with a fluffy attachment. 

Tim’s eyes widen in horror, and his words come out flatter than he intends. “No.” 

“You want to cover up your goods, then this is your only option, sweetcheeks,” Yolanda declares, waving the plug in front of him. Tim recoils from it, brows pinching. 

“But…” 

“Playboy Mondays means playboy bunny servers,” Yolanda explains, tucking the plug into the crook of her arm as she brushes through the curtains towards him. He holds steady beneath her insistences as she straightens the trim collar at his throat, tugging the lace front to sit more snugly across his chest. “Bunnies have to have their fluffy tails.” 

Tim winces, eyeing the plug with distaste. “Is that the only option?” 

She pauses, her expression softening an ounce. Then she sighs fondly, trailing a finger down his cheek. “If you’re really so adverse, I can set you up with a thong for your first night. But management will insist on it next week, so you’re going to have to concede eventually.” 

“A thong would be great,” Tim rasps, offering a weak smile that she returns with full-fledged pleasure. 

“Alright, sweetie, you sit tight and I’ll get you sorted. In the meantime, I’m sending someone in to fix your hair and makeup.” 

Tim frowns, glancing back at his reflection in the mirror. “What’s wrong with it?” 

Yolanda snorts indelicately. “If you’re not sparkling like a disco ball by the time you step out onto the floor, I haven’t done my job. We’ve gotta get you glittered up, sweetcheeks.” 

* * *

Art by **ride-the-dinos**. Please go send them your love over [here](https://ride-the-dinos.tumblr.com/ask)! 

* * *

Jason tries hard not to think about his childhood when he clocks in for the night at the Daily Obsession - or the “Daily O” as it was known by the locals. The strip club is an established relic of old Gotham, once an old vaudeville theater. After the shows died out, the theater crumbled to near ruin until some enterprising drag queens commandeered it to use as a catwalk to parade down and perform shows on in the height of the 80’s. It had since been converted into a gay strip club after some efforts to revitalize the area failed to return on investment and the local municipality abandoned hope of legitimate businesses developing the area. Some of the old charm of the theater remains, though Jason’s of the opinion that you’d have to squint to find it. Much like the rest of Gotham’s seedy back alleys, beauty lies in the eye of the blind-as-a-bat beholder. 

It never ceases to tick him off how flipping tricks really is just like riding a bicycle - once you learn, you never forget how to ride. But a pissed off Jason was a mean Jason, and that would get him nowhere tonight. He’s worked too hard to secure this gig; there’s too much riding on him getting to the bottom of what was lurking beneath the veneer of glam and glitter the strip club boasted. He closes his eyes and tries not to think of the eyeless corpses tangled in old nets that he’d watched the GCPD fish out of Gotham’s harbour. A wave of nausea turns his stomach, making Jason rock back slightly on his heels. 

“You okay, darling?” 

Jason reaches over to dump his motorcycle helmet onto his designated vanity. It’s practically spartan compared to the rest of the dancers’ tables, only laden with the essential equipment. Glitter, glitter, and more glitter. The station next to him is occupied by a concerned blonde, whose baby blues could give even Dick Grayson a run for his money. Jason knows him as Thomas, stage name Tommy Bahama. He’s from Nebraska, where he grew up on a ranch and left for the big city to escape his bigoted little hometown and abusive father. 

He’s too damn nice for a concrete toilet like Gotham, and Jason wishes he’d go back home and tell his homophobic father to go fuck himself.

“I’m alright,” he grins, plastering the persona of Jack Dickinson across his features. Lets the cocky arrogance of his cover smooth over his foul mood. “Just had some bad Thai food. Like seriously bad, they didn’t even make their own sauces. It was that crap you get at the store in a bottle.” 

Tommy cracks a smile, though it isn’t as bright as it should have been. The usually bubbly man is a little more subdued tonight, and it nags at Jason that perhaps he should reciprocate his earlier concern. 

Before he can get more than a companionable reassurance off his lips, a curtain call warning splits the low chatter. Jason curses, stripping out of his clothes with a vengeance as he preps for his shift. The dancers have access to all the costumes stashed back in wardrobe, though usually there’s an assistant on hand to help them shimmy into the skintight leather pants and banana hammocks. Jason had arrived ten minutes late thanks to his _ other _ night job: busting skulls of idiots trying to rob the working girls around the corner from his safe house. 

He’s on his own, and no doubt the costume selection would be sparse since he’d been last to get to the changing room. The only thing left in his considerable size is a pair of customary tear away pants in black pleather. Playboy cuffs and collars are a dime a dozen tonight, sitting in small baskets around the dressing room, so Jason doesn’t hesitate to slip on the decorative cuffs and adjust a faux-tie beneath the nock of his throat as he heads back to his dresser. He plucks an obnoxiously bright red string bikini brief out of his vanity drawer and quickly pulls it on before he hops around into the pants, grunting as he wrestles the unrelenting pleather over his broad thighs. 

He sits down to work on his face and hair next, retrieving a generous handful of red glitter gel that oozes viscously between his fingers. With practiced ease he swipes the digits through his hair, gelling from the streak of white in his bangs back, leaving a perfect pop of shine in his tousled curls. Cleaning his hand off with a wet towel, he casts around for the finishing touch.

“Where’d the basket of ears go, Nebraska?” he quips to his neighbor, who helpfully retrieves a pair of black rabbit ears from Long Johnson’s vanity. Tommy stoops to inspect his reflection over his shoulder, playfully ruffling Jason’s curls as he adjusts the wire headband in place. 

Jason flashes him Jack’s signature grin. “Thanks.” 

Jason settles into the familiar routine of applying stage makeup, though he isn’t as airbrushed as the rest of the men are. No point in it really, since people aren’t exactly looking at his face when he performs. He brushes his eyebrows clean of the stray red glitter from his hair gel and tilts his head, looking this way and that to inspect his work. He doesn’t need mascara, but Jason nonetheless applies dark brown eyeliner to darken his lash line a little more. The effect makes his eyes positively predatory when he’s finished, looking more like a fox than a harmless little bunny. 

“Need a lippie?” Tommy offers, holding out a chapstick.

“As long as it’s not peppermint. Shit stings like a bitch,” Jason complains, noting the cherry flavoring before he graciously takes it and applies a coat to his mouth. 

“Maybe your lips wouldn’t crack so much if you used a lip scrub,” Tommy suggests mildly, adjusting his own bunny ears where they peek from the angelic halo of his wavy blonde hair. Jason shrugs.

“No time for skincare, only sleep,” he teases as one of the stagehands posts themselves in the doorway, calling for them to take their places. The funny part is that Jason has no time for either. He’s already stretching himself thin between running the gangs out of his territory and patrolling. Normally he has just enough time to catch about three to four hours each day if he’s lucky. Add an undercover night job that’s physically and socially demanding? 

Lip scrubs just aren’t going to make the cut, unfortunately. 

Tonight he’s on floor duty since he’d been on poles the evening before. Yolanda does her best to make the schedules as forgiving as possible, only requiring her team of dancers to work the poles twice a week on a rotation. Jason is permanently scheduled for pole duties on Sinful Sundays, because he’d literally made it rain cash the first time he donned the cassock and pulled in the biggest payday the club has seen in nearly a decade. That means he gets a break on Mondays, where he roams the club keeping the patrons in line under the guise of giving lap dances at the tables. 

He honestly prefers working the pole. At least it doesn’t involve hands that like to wander, and the worst the pole ever did was give him a bit of a friction burn when he didn’t powder his thighs enough. It wouldn’t have been so bad if he could break their fingers, but he has to settle for a toothy smile and a warning. The security’s very lax for a strip club, with the only bouncers stationed at the entrance. So far nothing untoward has happened aside from a few overly amorous and handsy drunks, but Jason’s still careful to keep an eye on things when the dancers and servers hit the floor for the night.

The whole place is baudy, lively and fun otherwise. Jason had been taken aback when he’d started three weeks ago, expecting a run-of-the-mill seedy, soul-sucking dive where hearts charred black and bodies were transactions. Instead it’s akin to a grassroots company, the strippers friendly and supportive rather than competitive. Yolanda works hard to keep her tight-knit family above water; honestly, she reminds Jason of his own early efforts in setting Gotham on the straight and narrow. There’s a ferocity beneath her compassion that he admires.

But even with Yolanda’s best intentions working overtime to give the performers a place to call home, Jason can tell the buck stops with management. Dancers are subjected to rigorous fitness schedules, paraded like cattle for the regular patrons to admire. Servers have it a little worse, since Gotham doesn’t ensure a living wage for its constituents. They rely mostly on tips, same as the dancers. But the single thing that’s thrown Jason for a loop, is that everyone - even the part timers - has comprehensive health insurance. 

It puzzles Jason more than the blatant objectification or the money-hungry management. It just isn’t usual for clubs like this to have a legitimate benefits package, much less take the time to encourage a positive work environment. If it wasn’t for the two dead employees washing up in his turf several weeks ago, Jason wouldn’t have even gotten wind of the Daily O. A concerned party had approached the Red Hood during business hours, tipping him off to the fact that the victims’ connection had been their abruptly short employment at one of downtime Gotham’s established strip clubs. 

Once was a coincidence. Twice was proof of foul play. 

Especially when your victims were conveniently stripped of all their organs and transplantable tissue. Jason can smell a trafficking operation from a mile off, and he’s going to get to the bottom of it no matter how many laps he has to grind his ass on. It’s a small sacrifice to make to ensure he can put an end to the shady organisation behind it all. Red Hood had promised Yolanda he would find the culprit and make sure no more members of the community met the same end her friends had. He owes her that much. 

He and Tommy part ways once they emerge at the front of house; Tommy’s been assigned to a stage at the back of the club, so Jason makes a beeline for the as-of-yet unoccupied bar. The servers always congregate there when they’re waiting on orders, and tonight they seem especially keyed up. They’re all primping discreetly, admiring their reflections in the polished chrome of the countertops, but their voices are an octave higher than usual. While their laughter isn’t exactly forced, it’s definitely more exhilarated than a Monday night would call for. 

Jason slinks around their huddle to the side of the bartender, a drag queen named Charla Mange who he has on good authority has been working the bar since its incarnation as a Drag Queen Pageant runway.

“Evening, Charla,” Jason purrs, tilting his head at the lovely lady in sequins. She bats her dollbaby lashes at him, a deep gold burnished artfully over her lids. She’s taller than Jason, even without her platform shoes, but her shoulders aren’t as wide as his when she leans one playfully against him. 

“Jackie-O, don’t be coming up here looking for no drinks now,” she scolds him, smacking his bicep with her dark-toned hand. Her lips twist in a smothering smirk as she appraises him. “Go on, git, you gotta work the room.” 

“Pretty please?” Jason croons, folding his arms to lay his head across them, looking up at her through a simpering pout. “You’re the best bartender in Gotham City,” he sing-songs, flashing a brilliant smile. 

Charla flutters her hand at him, but Jason can tell she’s wavering. He reaches out, touching the top of her hand tenderly. 

“With a cherry on top?” he wheedles. “Just one little drink before I have to go, my love?” 

She melts, cursing him and herself as she yanks a bottle of Jack Daniels forcefully from under the counter and pours him a double shot. He straightens from his casual lean and slams back the first, pretending to ignore the gaggle of servers at the end of the bar who titter at their antics. 

“Gurls, don’t be like me, be smart. Don’t fall for a no-good, do-nothing himbo!” Charla exclaims, putting the back of her hand to her forehead and fanning her face dramatically with the other. 

Jason grins as he sips his second shot, nursing it for a moment in an effort to stall the inevitable expectation that he sit on some fat dude’s micro-dick. He can’t make it last forever without looking stupid though, so with reluctance he swallows the last mouthful and licks his lips suggestively. 

“Oh, go on, you,” Charla laughs, pawing his chest. He lets her squeeze his pec, making a show of stretching. It’s the least he can do for an old queen who gives him free shots on the sly. 

As Jason makes a show of alighting from the counter she pauses, her gaze fixed somewhere over his shoulder. He can feel the prickle itching down his spine, the unnerving awareness that someone is watching them. 

“Yolanda!” Charla pulls away, beckoning luxuriously as the woman herself approaches. “Who’s this little cat you drug in?” 

Jason thinks about sneaking another shot, but Charla is much like Alfred - eyes in the back of her head. He isn’t above eavesdropping, however, especially when it could turn up a useful leads, so he leans back against the bar to scope out the situation unfolding. 

Jason props his elbows on the sleek countertop with all the nonchalance he can muster, forcing his posture to stay easy but widening his chest. It’s an intimidating and inviting pose, one he uses on purpose to keep patrons at bay and the servers comfortable. Cocking his head, he sees Yolanda approach with a new face. It’s a server by the looks of him, who Jason assumes is the hasty replacement for waterlogged Victim #1. 

The kid is short and surprisingly well-built by the look of his compact muscle tone. He’s dainty and dangerous all at once, from his bright, full-glam makeup to the sweep of his shy smile. There’s a lean strength in the creamy legs on display, extending from the black lace teddy he’s all but poured into. The makeup is a trademark of Yolanda’s handiwork, hiding any trace of the boy beneath the powder to allow only a starlet to shine through. Even his hair is styled to perfection; soft and silky black curls tossed into a feminine wave, with a short tapered cut at the sides and nape. Jason scans him for several seconds with broad, unabashed curiosity before he realizes the kid is staring right back. 

Ice blue eyes glow from beneath a fringe of dark lashes, studying him with a quiet fascination. They draw Jason’s attention to the faint scar on the side of his throat, almost completely obscured by a healthy serve of foundation. Once he notices one, others begin to pry themselves from the woodwork of the man’s skin, painting a history that twists Jason’s stomach. Jason wonders if he’s come into this career willingly, or if he’s the sort who’s second-guessing the decisions in his life that have led him here. Pity twangs at his heartstrings as he meets the kid’s gaze evenly, sending him what he hopes is a friendly smile. 

“This is Teddy Bare,” Yolanda introduces, cocking her hip as she reviews her handiwork. “Teddy, this is Charla Mange, our bartender and head server. You’ll be training with her tonight, so stick close to the bar and do what she tells you to.” 

Charla flashes a huge smile to welcome the new kid, waving her arm to beckon him behind the counter. “Come on, honey child, let’s get you a tray and a ticket book! Start putting that cute tail of yours to work.” 

As soon as she says it, Jason’s eyes slip to the dimples of the man’s back, and the tuft of pale fur balanced on the peak of his ass. It’s a good ass, if small, with narrow hips that sway as he skirts the counter. The sort of hips Jason can imagine swamping with his own huge hands, pinning him down as he writhes delectably- 

“Don’t you have something to do other than make goo-goo eyes at the new boy?” Yolanda scolds, snapping her fingers pointedly at Jason, who jumps and ducks the curious gaze the kid tosses back at him. 

It’s not like him to have thoughts like that about other people. Jason feels shame creeping up his neck as he follows Yolanda’s suggestion, heading towards a table that looks full of relatively tame office workers out for a drink. The guests are happy to see him, so he plonks his ass down on the low table in a pose to please. Conversation is easy; anything he says is dismissed because they’re too enraptured with his abs. 

They are nice, if he says so himself, but he had no idea he’d be the best built in this penis palace. The manager who’d barely blipped during his interview had actually risen both brows when he’d taken off his shirt to display the goods. The older man had actually sat back in the chair for a moment before asking him if he ate barbells for breakfast. 

It’s a far cry from when he was just a skinny little brat sucking dick outside strip clubs for enough cash to afford a decent meal.

Despite his efforts to stay focused, every once in a while he catches a glimpse of Teddy, eyes snapping with magnet focus to the thread barely qualifying as a thong that covers his dignity with a fluffy white pom pom. At least it’s a thong tonight, unlike some of the other servers who are wearing their tails with plugs literally stuffed between their round cheeks. Teddy is still distracting enough that Jason’s barely paying attention to the conversation and almost agrees to a full monty.

“You’d have to discuss that with management!” he says through his teeth, “Why don’t we settle for a lap dance, huh, stud?” He plants both feet on either side of the customer’s knees, boxing them in. The dumbass has a poleaxed glaze over his eyes, two sheets to the wind. _ Great_, Jason discreetly rolls his eyes, the guy is probably going to pop off in his pants before he even gets started

“Can I touch you?” 

The customer looks like a forty-year-old virgin and Jason stifles a sigh as he smoothly pulls himself up by his core to kneel over the man’s obvious erection. He gives him a simpering smile, taking the man’s hands in his own and lifts them, pressing up and back until he has them pinned to the sofa on each side of the customer’s reddening face.

“How about I touch you instead?” Jason drawls, sinking down enough to brush the swell of his ass against the guy’s zipper. 

The movement earns him a whine and a few chuckles from the man’s friends. He doesn’t think to hard on it as he rocks down, vaguely keeping in time with the music drifting from the back of the club. It’s some bass-boosted version of Rihanna’s _ Pour It Up _ and he isn’t seeing dollar signs. 

Just a sad, sweaty dude panting harshly as he gyrates above him. 

He squeezes the man’s wrists hard for a second, an unspoken command to keep them there, before he lets go to run his fingers through his own hair. The music is hitting a crescendo, and he takes the cue to finish the dance by leaning all the way back until his vision is completely upside down. The stretch pushes his hips down flush against the customer’s, who is unable to help himself, humping up against sculpted curves. Jason doesn’t move when he feels a pulse of heat flare at the seam of his tearaway pants, his customer realizing two seconds too late that it’s going to be a long ride home in wet pants.

Jason slowly arches back up to a seated position, trailing the back of his fingers over the man’s jawline. “You must need a change of pants. Here, have mine.” 

He teasingly pops the snaps at the sides of his waist and rolls onto his back on the table, slowly wiggling out of the costume one leg at a time. It doesn’t escape him that he has caught the attention of the entire half of the room, so he hams it up some more. He wraps the pants around the back of the man’s neck and ties them into a messy bow, licking his top lip as he sits back to admire his work.

“Awesome…” The guy is smiling, no longer ashamed of his obvious cumstain. Jason just flicks his head a little to toss an unruly wisp of hair from his eyes before he slides away to find another group to entertain.

It might be his imagination, but he swears he sees Teddy blushing behind the bar, his doe eyes peeping over the tray he’s clutching like a shield. A stripper on the other side of the club makes a birthday call for their table, so Jason can’t stop to chat with the newbie. He trails after the other strippers to help make a birthday boy’s wish come true in a sea of sleek muscle and bunny ears.

They make a show of starting up a round of clapping, huddling around the small erect penis-shaped cake topped with a lit sparkler in the tip. 

“_Come and put your name on it_,” they jeer, gyrating in unison. “_Put your name on it. Come and put your name on it. It just might be your birthday! _” 

“Make a wish and blow out your candle!” the host stripper, Long Johnson, encourages the freshly turned twenty-one year old frat boy. With a booming laugh, he slaps him on the shoulder hard enough to push the birthday boy face first into Jason’s crotch. 

Jason grunts at the force, starting to wish he could somehow find a protective cup that would fit snugly inside skimpy underwear. Powering through the burn in his groin, he grabs hold of the back of the guy’s nape and presses him in a bit further. It’s weird and awkward, but it’s just business here, and this isn’t the first birthday special Jason’s had the pleasure of performing. 

“_I know you wanna bite this. It’s so enticing. Nothing else like this. I’mma make you my bitch_,” Jason cheers seductively to a loud chorus of, “_Cake, cake, cake, cake!_”

He lets the kid up for air after a count of three and there’s nothing on his face but the look of a man who could probably die happy right now. His friends rib him playfully, and Jason doesn’t dawdle at the table much longer, letting Johnson have his customers back as the crowd of dancers dissipates with a few blown kisses. 

He skims the room for a moment and decides he deserves a quick break, so he heads back to the bar. The servers flit from table to table like flashy hummingbirds, occasionally dropping by the counter for orders. Charla doesn’t give him shit for sidling up next to a few customers at the counter to make small talk. When a lull hits for them both, he casually tosses the question out, “How’s the new kid doing?” 

Charla raises a brow at him before she gives him a knowing little smile.

“Just fine. Sweet kid, great memory, too. Haven’t had to tell him anything twice!” She cleans some glasses up in the small sink behind the counter. “Bit of blush on him though. He’s just gotta get use to the swinging dick around here and I think he’ll be a great member of the team.” 

Jason plucks at his cufflinks. “Good, good.” 

“Something wrong?” Charla hums.

“Nah, just wanted to make sure he knew I was here to help if he needed anything.” Jason lolls his head back and forth, popping his neck to work out a kink. Trying to keep track of all the workers was a priority for him, especially if they were being targeted. So far he’s managed to keep tabs on all of them, even the stage hands. 

The kid’s scars come to mind as he pretends to wait on a customer, scanning the room for the new server instead. He’s disappointed by the man’s absence; however, when the club begins to pack out at the midnight rush, he’s swept back into the fray, missing his opportunity. 

* * *

At the bar, Charla has an eagle-eyed view of the club where she sees all and knows all. It doesn’t escape her notice that Jack is interested in the new boy; he’s got a soft spot as wide as the Sprang for the workers, even only having known them for a few weeks at best. And despite only a few hours under Charla’s discerning gaze, she can tell that the new boy is skittish and skilled at avoiding the handsome man. It would have been a point of concern had she not caught the incandescent flush lighting up the server’s cheeks whenever Jack was in his doe-eyed sights. 

Delight spills over Charla’s face when Teddy excuses himself to the restroom after Jack’s bikini bottom is nearly pulled down by a zealous customer, his tight ass exposed to the raucous delight of tables nearby. 

“Landa!” she hisses to the woman in the dark skintight green wrap. “Landa, come over here.” 

Charla waves down Yolanda, who is swanning near the stages, keeping an eye on business. It takes her a moment to make her way through the tables, but when she gets there Charla wastes no time yanking their heads together, whispering conspiratorially. 

“I think Teddy is sweet on Jackie,” she whisper-shouts.

Yolanda’s eyes widen, gaze darting to where Jack is good-naturedly twerking for a table of ladies out on the town for a bachelorette party. 

“You sure?” She blinks at her old friend, who nods back instantaneously. “Really.” 

She considers this development for a moment before both of them spot Teddy coming out of the employee restroom. The boy halts a few steps shy of the door, and it’s obvious he is staring Jack down as the man pulls out the front band of his underwear to let the women stuff twenty dollar bills in the space between. 

Teddy spins around and marches back into the restroom, one pale hand covering his mouth in an attempt to hide the burning blush slashed across his high cheekbones. 

“Oh, honey.” Charla touches her own heart, in sympathy. “We gotta help him. You’ve been saying you want to do something nice for Jackie, haven’t you, Landy? What kind of fairy drag mothers would we be if we didn’t give them a Happily Ever After?” 

Yolanda doesn’t say that it’s more than doing something nice for Jack. She hasn’t told Charla what Jack’s true purpose is in the club or that he’s an agent for the infamous Red Hood. There’s no proof that the club is responsible for what happened to Dominick or Zack, and she doesn’t want to scare the staff with misplaced paranoia. She couldn’t just sit by and watch it happen again. The second Zack had gone missing without warning she’d been alarmed. He’d never been late before, and she wasn’t buying the story from Manager McDouche that he’d just called in to quit. She knew from her late night D&Ms with him that he’d had a sick mother to take care of and needed the health insurance plan for her hospitalization. 

When Zack turned up in the bay, she’d put on her steel heeled stilettos and marched straight into the Narrows to find her old friend Tricksie. She’d found her under her signature street lamp, and wasn’t surprised to find her friend wasn’t alone. 

Red Hood was one big son of a gun, swamping Tricksie’s petite frame under the glare of Gotham’s morning light. His voice was distorted by the helmet, and Yolanda had blanched for the barest moment at the sight of the hulking brute. If Tricksie hadn’t assured her that he was good, clean, and willing to help, Yolanda might have thought the better of her endeavor. 

“I’ll get the animals who did this,” Red Hood had promised her after she’d laid her suspicions bare. “I’ll be sending one of my best lieutenants, Jack. Anything you see or hear, relay it to him and he’ll get it back to me.” 

He hadn’t flinched at her terse-tongued assessment of the victim’s gruesome deaths. Apparently he’d found out about Zack the minute he floated up from Gotham’s skeezy ocean bed, and had already been digging into the case. He’d shaken her hand firmly, giving it a reassuring squeeze. Somewhere in the back of Yolanda’s mind, she’d idly thought that it was a damn shame the city only gave Batman credit for keeping Gotham safe. This man was actually on the ground protecting people who couldn’t protect themselves and he was thanking _ her _for coming to him with this information. 

In Yolanda’s many years of experience, Batman didn’t thank anyone - much less do a damn thing that made a difference for the late-night working as far as she could tell. Revolving door meet Arkham, and all that. When the Hood stopped his troublemakers, he did so permanently. She saw why Tricksie had such high praise for the man. 

Yolanda tosses her head back and laughs throatily. Even thugs deserve to have a sweetheart, she supposes. Especially a thug with heart of gold working for someone like Red Hood. And any repayment she could make to Red Hood or his men eased some of the selfish guilt Yolanda harboured for dragging them both into this mess. 

“I do believe you are right, hunty,” she agrees, settling onto a barstool as they begin to plot, thick as thieves. “Let’s play a Love Game.” 

* * *

Art by **ride-the-dinos**. Please go send them your love over [here](https://ride-the-dinos.tumblr.com/ask)! 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs of the night are "Pour It Up" and "Birthday Cake" by Rihanna.


	2. Twink Tuesday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Batsaboutbats:** Holy shit folks we wrote over a 16k wordcount and we're only 2 chapters in. I just wanna say how happy I am to be writing this story with meaninglessblah, she is a goddamn delight to work with. We hope you guys enjoy the new chapter, and let us know what you think by commenting below! c:

Jason is ready to plant himself face first into his bed when he steps out of the elevator onto his apartment floor, fumbling with his keys in his jacket pocket. He’s drained enough that he drops them flat on the dirty linoleum tiles right outside the elevator doors. Cursing, he leans low to snag them up, trying not to wince at the pull in the back of his hamstrings. A night of being a private dancer is almost as taxing as going a few rounds with Bane, in his modest opinion. Especially since Tommy had gotten sick before his shift ended and Yolanda had asked him to fill in on the pole. 

Trudging down the hall, Jason mentally makes a checklist of what he has to do before he crashes. There’s surveillance footage from the backrooms and the showfloor to review and he has to pour through the manager’s cell phone data to see if he’s been in contact with anyone out of the ordinary. The last three weeks of staking out the club has turned up bupkis and he has a sinking feeling today will be no different. 

His gut is telling him not to give up on the location though; it’s only a matter of time before the traffickers move again. If someone at the club is involved like he thinks they are, he’ll be in prime position to know the second they move. 

Jason’s apartment is the last door on the left of the hallway, and he’s immediately alert when he hears the drone of the sitcom _ Friends _from within. He relaxes when a familiar laugh rings out at one of the shitty jokes, and he pushes open the unlocked door with a sigh.

“The fuck are you doing here, Roy?” 

Jason kicks the door shut behind himself, throwing his helmet at the archer’s head. Instead of catching it, Roy ducks, and it hits the wall to leave a nice round dent in the drywall. 

“Fucker!” Jason exclaims.

“Nice to see you too, sweetiepie.” Roy crunches a handful of popcorn, scattering debris all over his blue velvet couch.

Jason is too tired to fuss for once, trudging to the bedroom to drop his jacket and bag down. He changes out of his rank-smelling jeans and t-shirt, kicking his boots into a corner. After he’s acceptably showered, he tugs on some fresh boxer briefs, snapping the waistband with his thumbs as he ambles back out to the living room. Roy is still on his couch, and it’s only now that Jason notices that he’s got a slew of gadgets and gizmos spread on his coffee table, floor, and even on the couch. If those are oil stains on his cushions _ so help him_\- His eye twitches. 

“Chillax. Have a seat!” Roy offers the scant inches of clutter-free cushion on the other end of the couch as if this isn’t Jason’s own apartment. In a show of admirable maturity, Jason sweeps the bits and bobs of what look like one of Roy’s deconstructed arrows onto the floor like a pissed off cat. Justice served, he settles in to watch the last half of the episode. It’s a Ross-centric one, so he dozes off for a while until he feels something cold brush against his bare sternum. 

“Jesus fucking-!” He flails, hand latching around object - a long neck straight out of the fridge and cold as a coffin nail. Roy laughs at him, taking a swig of his own beer. Jason sets it down on the coffee table, too tired to even think of imbibing. Drinking before bed usually equals nightmares for him, and he’s too raw and worn out today to deal with it.

“You should sleep on a bed, you’ll ruin your back like that.” 

The couch has been cleaned off and the clutter on the floor is gone now too. Jason lets out a groan and falls onto his side, his legs hooked over the armrest and the top of his head brushing Roy’s thigh. A bed sounds like heaven, but he doesn’t want to get up. 

Fingers card through his hair, stroking absently as Roy drinks both beers for them. It’s been a while since he’s seen the archer, and even longer still since someone touched him with such comforting affection. Getting felt up all night while undercover and busting skulls in between doesn’t count as physical contact in Jason’s book. Not the meaningful kind anyway.

“Jay?” Roy calls him softly, fingers pressing against the top of his crown in a gentle scratch.

“Mn?” he doesn’t open his eyes, too relaxed.

“I… I talked to Kori last night.” Roy goes back to stroking his hair, settling his fingers between curls. Jason cracks open one eye blearily and stares at the muted television.

“How is she?” Jason stretches and shuffles up the couch, settling his head fully on Roy’s lap.

“Good, good.” Roy pauses for a moment, a light tenseness in his posture. Those fingers sweep idly through Jason’s bangs. “She wanted to tell me something.”

Jason doesn’t say anything, a sinking feeling in his gut. Roy and Kori weren’t really on the outs, but they weren’t exactly on the in either. Their parting had been open and amicable; Kori had headed to deep space to abolish slavery in a galaxy near her homeland, and Roy had rambled around with him for a bit until he just didn’t anymore. Jason couldn’t tell them both that it hurt him to see them all drift apart. He knew he could call them anytime and they would be there within a heartbeat, but it just wasn’t the same anymore. He also didn’t want them to think he felt like a little kid whose parents had divorced.

“She said that her and Dick are talking again,” Roy pushed the words out in a rush, deflating as they left his chest. “She called him her soulmate, dude.”

Jason sat up, planting his feet on the floor before he put an arm over Roy’s shoulders in an easy embrace. “I’m sorry, Roy.” 

He was honestly sympathetic, because he knew exactly what it was like to go up against Dick Grayson for someone’s affections and lose. Roy laughs humorlessly, before taking the last dregs of his beer down in a choked-off swig. 

“It’s fine. I just wanted to tell you since I don’t think I can see her for a while. Not until I’m able to say I’m happy for her and mean it.” Roy sounds small as he admits that, the brim of his hat bumping Jason’s chin as he rests his head on Jason’s collarbone. “She deserves to be happy, even if it’s not with me.” 

Jason frowns, tugging the cap down. “You do too.” 

A soft sigh was his only reply.

“What can I do?” Jason asks, stretching out his legs. There were a few new bruises along the insides of his thighs and a few along his right calf from bumping into various booth corners and pinching himself on the pole. 

“I was thinking about getting a new tattoo,” Roy muses after a moment. “I found this new artist in Gotham and I’d like to have her do it, but I’m not comfortable about strangers around my dick with sharp objects. Not unless I got backup.” 

“I can- on _ your dick_?” Jason blusters, incredulous.

“_No_, not on my dick! I want it on my lower hip, you dork,” Roy snarks, flicking his nose as he draws back. “I shouldn’t have to tell you being alone with your pants down in Gotham isn’t safe.” 

Jason agrees. “So, right now?”

Roy shrugs. “Yeah, unless you need to sleep some more.” 

“I’m up,” Jason groans, hoisting himself off the couch to go put pants on. Roy cheers, and he manages to only sound a little bit mopey when he shuffles into the bedroom, surreptitiously hiding his smile. 

* * *

They end up downtown a while later, making a pit stop at a hotdog stand before heading into the tattoo parlor. Jason settles down on a chair in the lobby with his unrolled takeout bag between his ankles and a brimming serve of sweet chilidog goodness. He hasn’t eaten anything since his last break at work, and a protein bar does not fill him up like it used to. His considerable bulk takes a lot of calories to maintain, and even more still with his regular workout routine of thumping the shit out of gangbangers. Ten dogs loaded with the works and wrapped in bacon to boot greet him as he peers inside the grease spotted bag, his heart touched. Roy had bought them for him and he’s a man after Jason’s own heart. 

He ignores the jealous stink eye of other patrons, which slowly morphs into disgust and mild awe as he downs all but two - in case Roy wants any. The white hum of tattoo machines drones while Roy flirts with the receptionist until the artist finishes up and calls them back. 

Her work is plastered across the walls of her private booth, and Jason has to admit he’s impressed. Her portrait work is top notch, but her stylized designs are great too.

Roy kicks back onto the table, hitching his thumbs into his unfastened jeans, and drops them. The artist, Tiffany, is holding out a mock up design for Roy to inspect.

“So this is the layout of the portrait you requested. I have a few back ups, but I felt this was the strongest design.” She snaps on some nitrile gloves and busies herself with setting up her tools while Roy drinks in every inch.

“It’s perfect,” Roy marvels, flipping the design for Jason to see. Jason chokes around the straw of his coke, pounding his chest. Lian Harper smiles back at him, her eyes lit with life and promise of a future cut short.

“Roy, are you sure about this?” Jason stumbles over his words, cringing. “I mean. Uh.”

“Yeah, I’m sure,” Roy nods sagely, handing the paper back to Tiffany. “I’ve been wanting to do it for a long time, and today seems like the day.” He gives Jason a reassuring smile that Jason knows isn’t real because he’s seen Roy on days like this.

“I’ll be ok,” Roy says and Jason’s not sure if it’s to himself or Jason. 

Tiffany gets started once she preps Roy’s skin for the work and makes a transfer of the design’s outline as a guide. The session is going to last several long hours, since Roy doesn’t want to stop until it’s done. Roy is chatty and humorous for the first hour, but at the two hour mark he’s growing quiet, withdrawn. He’s staring at the ceiling with increasingly glassy eyes, one blink away from tears.

“You guys do body piercing?” Jason asks suddenly, slouched in the chair by the curtained door.

“Sure do!” Tiffany replies with the perkiness of a retail worker. “What were you thinking about?”

“Hmmm.” Jason makes a show of thinking, before snapping his fingers. “What about my nipples, Roy?”

“Huh?” Roy barks a sudden laugh, Tiffany’s hand lifting expertly to avoid messing up her work. “Dude, what?”

Jason grins. “I’m gonna get my nipples pierced. It’ll be hilarious.” 

“What the fuck,” Roy mouths, lips curling upwards in a smile. 

* * *

It is most decidedly _ not hilarious. _Jason’s no stranger to pain; he’s taken gunshot and stab wounds to nearly every square inch of his body and a crowbar full swing to the head. He can, however, safely say that the erogenous zones of his body have remained remarkably intact over the years, and he’s not sure what the fuck he’s going to do should one of the rogues find out that all it takes to bring the Red Hood to knee is to stick a sharp object through his teats. 

“Can I take a break?” Roy asks Tiffany once she reaches a stopping point in the shading. She nods, waving them off as she cleans up so she can grab herself a snack.

Roy insists that he go with him to the piercer’s chair for ‘emotional support’, despite the fact that Jason’s the designated therapy dog for this trip in the first place. The piercer goes through several trays of rings, barbells and studs for him, and explains the different gauges and materials they recommend since it’s his first piercing, ever.

It weirds him out that someone would want to have huge holes in their earlobes much less their nipples, so Jason sticks with the smallest gauge and choses a surgical steel bar he can easily cap with clear acrylic balls. At least the piercings will be discreet when he’s shirtless - and finished with this case. 

“You sure you don’t want the cupid set?” Roy cheeses it up, holding up an arrow shaped barbell and a heart-shaped ring over his own chest, waggling his eyebrows. Jason flips him off in tandem, laughing. 

“Laaame!” He tries to play off his nervousness at the sight of Janet the piercer prepping the wicked looking needle for him. “I’d rather have rings with little bats dangling off ‘em.”

“Your loss.” 

Roy puts the jewelry back on the tray, not sitting back down. He’s pantsless, a white spa towel wrapped around his waist for modesty. Janet watches them with amusement, before she settles into a chair next to Jason’s table. 

“Ready?” she asks, steadying her hand. 

“Punch my clock, boss.” Jason folds his arms behind his head, forcing himself to relax. The bite of the needle tip barely pressing to the meat of his nipple makes his stomach break out in sweat, butterflies swirling inside it. 

The first one makes him arch off the table as though electrocuted, mouth opening in a sharp unbidden cry he couldn’t have smothered if he tried. Janet is good enough to not lose grip of the needle and keeps it steady, following him upwards so as to not tear his flesh. She quickly slides in the barbell and caps it with practiced ease while he writhes. When she lets him go he hits the table again in shock, shaking harshly. Roy has gone silent, eyes round and brows high. 

“You must be one of those guys who have a lot of feeling in them. It’s ok, perfectly natural,” Janet assures him with a motherly tone. “You want to do the other as well, or are you good with just one?” 

Jason’s ears burn with shame, and all he can think of are nights being shoved against the brick walls of Gotham’s alleyways with big hands clutched to his small chest as he squirmed beneath an insistent pounding from behind. He can remember the handful of times he came during those encounters, and every single time he’d been groped and manhandled up top as well as down low. 

“Jay?” Roy is at his side, all amusement gone now, hands steady on his shoulders. “Jay, buddy, breathe.” He meets Roy’s green gaze and focuses on the different flecks of color within the irises, counting hazel browns and dark blue to center himself. 

He does finally breathe in, and then he’s panting like a racehorse. He closes his eyes and focuses on getting the pit of his stomach to settle, reaching up to clutch at Roy’s forearms. 

“I’m… I’m fine,” he rasps, after he finally gets his shit together with a quick mental exercise a little old mystical woman named Ducra once taught him.

“I think he’s good,” Roy tells Janet, waving her off. “We’ll just do the one.”

“No, I want the other one done too,” Jason says stubbornly, using Roy’s arm as a grip bar to lift himself up to a seated position. He inspects his chest, the innocent looking barbell glinting against his reddened flesh. “It’s not symmetrical without it.”

“Dude.” Roy gives him a pointed look. “I’m not gonna hold it against you if you don’t get the other one, ok?” 

“I said I’m fine!” Jason gripes, looking at Janet. “_Do it._ Roy, hold my hand.” He holds his palm out to the archer, frowning grumpily until the redhead heaves a sigh and clasps it firmly in his own. 

The second one hurts just as much, but Roy is strong enough to keep his shoulders pinned so he has minimal wiggle room. To vent, he lifts a leg and slams it back down on the foot rest of the chair, cursing a blue streak. 

“Motherrrrrrrr… Ffffffff...” he hisses as she caps the last barbell into place and sets about wiping both piercings down with antiseptic. 

Nipples stinging, face red and a newfound respect for nursing mothers who have teething babies, Jason Todd can safely swear he is never getting pierced again. 

* * *

Jason finds a problem with his new decorations the second he suits up for a quick patrol route before he clocks in at the Daily O for another night of debauchery. “Fuck!” 

He bows his shoulders inwards, trying to force a gap between his nipples and the armor, but it’s too well made to gain much space between his body and the flush chestplate. Roy looks alarmed for a few seconds before he bursts out laughing at Jason’s sensitive nipple plight. 

“Dude, go put that shit back in the case. I’ll patrol for you.” He is not much better off, his whole hip covered in the thousands of needle pokes he took today, but apparently he’s not as sensitive as Jason is. Redheads and higher pain tolerance, Jason figures. 

“I’m fine-”

“Nope, go ice up then get some rest. You’re gonna have a hard enough time working security at that bar you're surveilling without setting them off,” Roy insists, grinning. A touch of something softer enters his gaze. “Thanks for today, by the way.” 

Jason slumps, letting the argument go as he reluctantly peels off his gear. He hasn’t told Roy that he isn’t actually a bouncer for a regular waterhole yet, and he’s not sure he ever will. He loves the dumbass like a brother, but he’s already given him enough blackmail material for one day.

“Next time I catch a feeling, you’re getting your dickhole pierced,” Jason mumbles, bumping his shoulder against Roy’s as he heads back into the bedroom to change. 

Roy laughs. “You make it sound like having emotions is like catching the flu.” 

When he comes back, Roy blows him a kiss as he climbs out onto the fire escape to start his route for the night, promising to extend it a few extra hours to keep thugs from getting any ideas about muscling in on his turf. 

Not too much later, Jason’s heading out himself, driving to work on his street-safe motorcycle. He stashes it in a storage unit several blocks down from the strip club, taking the rest of the way by rooftop. There’s a perfect little nook on top of the building that he can take a quick smoke on before he goes in, with a maintenance lock box he can drop his gear in if he needs to. Tonight he doesn’t have anything other than himself and his fists, so he skips the smoke break and shimmies down the back drain pipe to land at the backdoor exit.

The building’s only security cameras are located at the front door and inside the foyer, cataloguing every patron. He’s spotted a few more covert pieces in some of the private rooms, and Yolanda has her own set-up for pole classes in the main room. There had been cameras at the register and the bar, but they were broken long before Jason started working there. Yolanda had informed him that they haven’t been replaced because the manager doesn’t want to spend the money on them. 

But they’re happy to pay out of pocket for employee’s health benefits. Sure. 

Jason has run financial and background checks on McClain twice a week since he started working at the club, and each time has come back frustratingly squeaky clean. Not even a single bounced check at the drycleaners. It doesn’t mean anything though, because Jason knows from past experience with traffickers that they could be operating in cash under the table, which is hard to track unless you know where they keep the piggy bank. And it’s not for lack of trying. 

He’s reviewed the security footage too, for any window shoppers hiding amongst the regulars. Signs of anyone who had seemed overly keen on either of the victims. Even if management is somehow accepting bribes to look the other way on trafficking scouts frequenting their establishment, Jason can’t nail down who it could be. He’s watched the comings and goings of the sad and lonely of Gotham for three weeks from his vantage point on the floor, and no one rings any alarms from where he’s sitting pretty. 

Yolanda greets him when he hustles into the dressing room, distractedly adjusting Jack the Booty Ripper’s top hat into place. It’s Twink Tuesday, so the dress code for the strippers is more lax and lazy, since they don’t want to show up the servers in all their rainbow peacock glory. She smacks the himbo’s ass on his way out and then squeals when she sees him.

“Jackie, you’re early!” She grabs a hanger with a tight leather vest studded with glittering paste gems. “I’ve got your new outfit ready so go ahead and get naked, stud.”

He stares at the stereotypical leather-daddy outfit, each piece so tight it would almost have to be sewn onto his body. He wants to cry. Yolanda catches his kicked puppy impression and immediately lowers the garment back onto the rack.

“What, you don’t like it?” she asks, keeping her tone mild. It’s obvious though that she’s a little hurt.

“It’s not that, I just… Got anything a bit less skin tight?” he asks, plucking at his loose t-shirt.

She raises a brow, but turns to walk between the racks without another complaint, shoving garments aside until she finds what she’s looking for. 

“It’s not tight but it’s not slouchy either.” 

She returns with a blue and white plaid shirt with snap buttons, tight jeans, cowboy boots and a hat that looks like something Tommy would wear back at his family’s ranch. There’s a bit of a shine to each garment, sequins and rhinestones discreetly sewn on to draw the eye to the most attractive places on a man’s body. 

“That’s perfect, thank you.” He takes the stack of clothes from her and sighs in fond exasperation at the sight of the rhinestone design on the back pockets of the jeans. She pinches his cheek, before busying herself with a few of the servers begging her for some help with their eyeliner and lipstick. 

Tommy's looking better today when Jason moseys over to his dressing table, flopping down to kick off his combat boots. “Hey, Jersey.” 

Tommy’s already dressed in a very sparkly version of a construction worker’s outfit, his painter’s cargo pants bedazzled and stitched with embroidered pink triangles and splattered in a rainbow of paint droplets. 

“Nebraska.” Jason tips his new hat at him playfully, before he pulls off his t-shirt with a stuttered hiss. 

“Ouch!” Tommy gasps, clutching at his own chest. He gestures to Jason’s nipples, dark pink and still a little swollen. “That looks like it hurt.” 

“Yeah, it really fucking did,” Jason admits, getting into his jeans and boots before he attempts the button up shirt. “You feeling better today?” 

“Oh! Yeah. Thanks for covering for me, I really appreciate it,” Tommy tells him sincerely, tying back his hair in a quick little ponytail. “I must have caught a bug or something.” 

Jason makes a mental note to check up on him later, because he’s never seen someone go down and come back up so quickly from a mere ‘bug’ before. At least no one of the non-meta, normal human being variety. He doesn’t think Tommy’s up to anything vile, but he worries something might be going on. The man had been fine one minute doing his routine on the pole and the next he was in the backroom pale as a ghost, sweaty and dizzy as a spinning top. Yolanda had hustled him off to take a cab home after he’d gone to the restroom and gotten sick, worrying his hair back from his face as he got into the passenger seat. 

Today he looks like nothing has happened at all.

Yolanda sees Jason before he gets his shirt on and her screech of joy is loud enough to make people turn. 

“Jackie!” She power walks to his table, and shakes his shoulders lightly. “You look good enough to bite with those!” 

He blushes, ducking his head. 

“I, uh… got them with a friend,” he mutters. 

“Oh, a friend?” She seems overly interested in that bit, her painted brows furrowing. “I didn’t know you had a ‘friend’.” 

“N-not that kind of friend!” His head jolts up, mouth working. “He got dumped. So I went with him to a tattoo parlor and ended up getting them as a gag to make him feel better.” She tilts her head, her glitter dusted hair gathered in two large afro puffs on either side of her scalp. It makes her look like a confused toy poodle as she puzzles him for a moment before she flashes another glamorous smile at him, pleased by this information for some unknown reason. He fidgets under her scrutiny, feeling strangely like he’s been caught with his fingers in Alfred’s cookie jar. 

“You’re a good boy, aren’t you, Jackie?” Yolanda asks him with a coo, stroking back his white forelock. “You tell your friend he can come have a drink on the house to heal his achy breaky lil’ heart, okay?” 

Jason stares at her before he realizes he’s dressed like a rhinestone cowboy and she’s quoting one of the most aggravating ear worms known to country music. He snorts, chuckling until he has to smother the amusement by burying his face in his folded arms on his dressing table. 

“I-I’ll tell him, Landa…” he assures, wiping the corners of his eyes.

“Good. Now you’ve got twenty minutes to get yourself cleaned up and then I want you to twerk it for the divorcee at table twelve. She’s been boo-hooing into her cup since she came in at five and I don’t want her to drown herself in tears.” 

Relief floods Jason, because the women who come to the gay bar are an absolute fucking delight to dance for. Perhaps it’s because they know what objectification is like, or it might just be the fact that he’s just more comfortable around women to begin with. He grew up amongst them until Bruce had taken him in, and he’s never felt more at home than he had with the gentler sex. 

“I do solemnly swear I’ll twerk till she smiles or my ass falls off,” he promises. 

* * *

The divorcee is a sweet woman who put her bastard husband through medical school, raised three beautiful children and gave up her own career as a public records keeper to take care of the household. He’d walked out on her to be with a flouncy young intern looking to dig his pockets. Jason talks to her quietly as he sits beside her on the couch, pouring her a fresh drink on the house. 

“I’m so sorry.” Jessica wipes her eyes and sniffles as she takes the highball glass from him. “I should go, I know you need to make money.” 

Jason smiles. “It’s okay. I don’t just dance for the money.”

She stares up at him, utter confusion jumbled over her soft middle aged features.

“I do it for the ass,” he jokes, jerking a thumb vaguely over his shoulder. She glances where he’s pointing and then back to him. For whatever reason, the way she’s staring at him makes him glance back to where he’d directed. 

Teddy is in the middle of clearing a table, bent at the waist smack dab in firing range of Jason’s casual gesture. His pert backside is fully covered tonight in high-waisted white shorts, but they are so tight they look painted on. His torso is mostly nude however, skin glowing with body shimmer powder and a slim rainbow handkerchief tied over his sleek chest for a hint of modesty. He’s close enough that Jason could reach out and touch him, making matters worse.

“I mean- I, ah… fuck,” Jason stammers weakly, looking back at his client. She’s still holding her glass, staring him down. “I’m sorry, I was just trying to make you laugh. But I am serious, I don’t do this for money.” He sheds Jack Dickinson’s persona for a moment and tries to offer her a sincerely contrite look. 

“I’m not the one to apologize to,” she says blandly, sipping her drink. “But thank you.”

He slumps his shoulders, effectively cowed by her disapproving tone. She does manage a small smile when she notices his thoroughly shamed posture.

“So why do you really work here?” She tilts the glass to and fro, only dribbling a little bit on the floor. She’s had quite a bit, Jason’s noticed, but has managed to stay upright. 

“To make people happy,” he says at last, shrugging a shoulder. “A lot of people in these places aren’t bad, just lonely or looking to get their mind off trouble. It helps me to help others. So I dance here to relieve both burdens, you know?”

She seems to buy it, finishing her drink.

“Take my advice, hun.” She sets the glass down on the low table beside their couch and smiles sadly. “Don’t do this to make others happy, because believe me, nothing good comes of putting the undeserving first.” 

Jason’s stomach plummets as he watches her stand, swaying on her feet. There’s nothing more alarming to him than to hear a woman sound so broken, and all he can think about is the way his mother looked the morning before she died. The way her face had been determined and so very weak as she’d read the crumpled letter from his incarcerated father. The last letter he wrote to her before he’d been shanked by some thug in the cell block over a stupid crumpled pack of cigarettes. 

She picks up her leather tote purse and gives him a pat on the shoulder.

“Wait, please.” He stands quickly, taking her arm. “Let me get you a cab.”

“I don’t need one where I’m going,” Jessica mutters. Jason’s brows furrow.

“Okay, yeah no, you’re not jumping off the pier,” he says firmly, holding her arm tighter now. The Pier isn’t that far from here, and it’s a local spot he knows well. He’s talked down a lot of jumpers from there in his patrol days. Fished out even more than he cares to count. She looks shocked, as if she hadn’t expected anyone to care, much less know. “You said it yourself. You’ve got three kids. You think they want that bastard who left their mom for some floozy to raise them alone?”

Jessica blinks rapidly, falling apart again.

“Sometimes I just get so tired,” she says as she sinks back down to the couch. Jason goes with her, guiding her gently.

“It’s okay to want to rest,” he assures her. “Have you talked to anyone about how you’re feeling?”

“My sister. She thinks I’m… I’m being too passive. But what can I do? He has a good job, I don’t have anything but alimony and he’s already taking me to court over the kids. So he doesn’t have to pay child support.” She hangs her head. Jason’s teeth grind angrily.

“I mean to a doctor.” He evens his tone, filtering out his rage at the asshole husband who took a bright woman and buried her under years of no-doubt neglect, tearing down her confidence till she was sitting in a gay strip club drinking until she had enough courage to jump off a fucking pier to drown herself. “Suicidal thoughts are not okay. Not when you have so much to live for, Jessica.” He rubs her hand, not commenting when she squeezes his. It’s not much, but it’s something.

They talk until he gets her to come down from the idea of suicide and passes her information on a good therapist just outside the city limits that works pro bono. Before she gets into her cab she hugs him tight, and thanks him. He gives her a firm squeeze and whispers to her that she can come back anytime she needs a laugh, which in turn does make her giggle.

“Go tell that boy you’re sorry,” she encourages him, patting his arm again. “He looked ready to burst into flames from embarrassment.”

Then she’s in the cab and gone, leaving Jason alone on the corner outside the club. He looks back through the doors, sighing as he rubs the back of his neck. Tonight just isn’t his night, but at least Jessica is going to get the help she needs. If he can help at least one person, that’s good enough for him. 

Taking a deep breath, he steels himself and marches back inside. 

* * *

The night starts off well enough for Tim, and the club isn’t very busy. Twinka Belle, the server he’s to shadow while training, assures him that it’s usually this slow because the best hunks aren’t dancing the poles. 

“You should see all them hoes up in here on Sundays.” Twinka pops his gum and flicks back his blue and pink streaked hair. “But can’t say I blame ‘em.” 

He tugs his sequined tube top up a little further where it’s sliding down to expose his nipples. They’re lining the glasses up for shots in the downtime to make Charla’s job smoother. 

Tim doesn’t ask him what he means, too distracted when he sees a familiar figure sweep into the room with a smirk and a whoop of “Howdy _ Cowboy! _” from a few of the regular customers. Jason is dressed quite plain compared to the rest of the crew tonight, his plaid shirt buttoned up to the dip of his collarbone and jeans tight over his strong thighs. He looks surprisingly modest compared to what Tim saw him strutting around in yesterday, and his own dignity thanks him for it. Tim’s not sure he can withstand another night of Jason grinding against patrons while Tim watches on in equal parts horror and awe. 

The woman at table twelve has been crying on and off since she arrived, and Charla has watered down her drinks to be on the safe side. Tim almost frowns at the white-fraud, but notices Charla isn’t charging her past the first full-strength cocktail. So he keeps an eye on the customer, busying himself between cleaning and eavesdropping on anyone whoever looks skuzzy enough to be involved with a trafficking ring. 

He’s interested in a fat balding man from Wayne Enterprises that he notices two tables over, but he hangs back by table twelve to avoid detection. He doesn’t know how the fuck he’s managed to avoid Jason’s notice for the second night in a row, but he definitely doesn’t want someone he used to work with on the board to recognize him. Tonight his own makeup got a pass from Yolanda, who only added some glittery highlight powder to the tops of his shoulders, then his chest and stomach. It was strange how relieved he was that she approved of his work, his confidence in his disguise boosted just enough to make him stay put when Jason ambles over to table twelve and the hiccuping divorcee. 

Tim holds his breath, counting his heartbeat as he listens to Jason’s voice float over the din of the club around them. He’s never really heard Jason talk much since he was resurrected. He would yell of course, or insert a sneering rude comment occasionally over the comms on the rare occasion he’d work with them. Jason’s even worse whenever he’s having a ‘conversation’ with Bruce. Those arguments would end in them screaming one another down.

The gentle, kind tone shocks him to the core.

He sneaks a glance their way, brows crooked in consternation at the sight of Jason huddled next to the woman like a big labrador trying to lie on it’s master’s lap . She seems to feel like she can’t believe someone like Jason is paying attention to her, and apologizes for keeping him from paying customers.

“It’s okay.” Jason says with a smile so nostalgic that Tim’s heart stops. “I don’t dance just for the money.” 

He can’t look away, lips parting. For once his brain is quiet, no longer cataloguing the fat Wayne executive who is attempting to get one of the servers to come home with him, or the raucous cheers of old gay men living it up while a stripper shimmies atop their table, or even the way the disco music is cheesy and outdated on the loudspeakers. Instead all he can think of are nights in alleyways chasing two supposed ghosts as they kept Gotham City safe from criminals. Or the way he could practically smell the processing chemicals as he watched that same smile develop over a young Robin’s face in the hundreds of photographs he snapped in secret. 

“I do it for the ass,” Jason continues, jerking a thumb directly towards him, breaking the spell Tim hadn’t realized he’d been cast in thrall of. He jolts, almost knocking over a glass on the table, hand mopping too carelessly. The woman looks over to him, her tear filled eyes blinking. She seems to register Tim’s discomfort and misreads it for entirely wrong reasons. 

She deadpans Jason instantly, who decides to look at why he wasn’t so clever after all. Tim’s face heats again, cursing his pale skin into infinity and beyond, and he turns away quick enough that he won’t have to see Jason’s expression. It’s embarrassing enough to hear him falter in his persona.

“I mean- I, ah… fuck,” Jason stammers weakly, looking back at his client. Thank fuck, because Tim doesn’t think he could handle keeping cover if he had to look at Jason right now.

He hurries away once the coast is clear, all but scrambling behind the bar to rub his traitorous cheeks as if that would wipe away the blush staining them. All he manages to do is get glitter all over his hands. The music finally leaves the seventies behind and begins to play a bass-boosted twerk song, livening up the stages at last.

“Teddy!” Charla calls, flagging him over to her end of the bar. He drops his tray onto the counter, leaning forward to hear her over the music, brows raised. She beckons him close and shouts over the deafening song, “Need you in room two for a body shot collection.” 

“Oh,” Tim says with a start, and nods. “Sure, no problem.” 

Charla hastily loads a tray with eight shots and a small pitcher of bubbling pink champagne, handing it off to Twinka Belle as she shoos Tim towards the private room. He skips across the floor, ducking through the curtain with a blinding smile on his features. His entrance is met with a chorus of cheering from what looks to be an entire reunion football team, and Tim makes sure to keep the smile plastered across his lips even as he’s manhandled across the room towards a cleared table. 

“Lay down,” Twinka Belle instructs, and Tim boosts himself up on the wood, sprawling out as the server circles him with the tray. The younger server winks and jerks off the handkerchief around Tim’s chest with an efficiency the Batman would covet. It takes a steeled sense of willpower to not cover his chest up on reflex, but he manages it. “Tense up and don’t move.” 

Tim doesn’t have to tell Twinka that tensing up won’t be a problem.

He sucks in a shallow breath when they settle the first ice cold shot glass in his navel, lifting his gaze to the ceiling so he doesn’t have to focus on the bead of condensation that slides down the curve of his abdomen. Another shot is balanced on the fly of his shorts suggestively, then his thighs nudged into alignment so he can pinch another glass there. 

He’s forced to look down with a soft bleat of protest when the server swirls the blunt base of a cold glass over one nipple and then the next, peaking them before he sets the last two shots astride his nubs. 

“Christ,” Tim breathes, laying his head back as Twinka steps away and is replaced by two braying frat boys. 

The twin Slippery Nipple shots over his chest look the most precarious, so they each lean forward to suck them down, throw their heads back to wash the alcohol down as Tim exhales in relief. Then there’s lips brushing the sensitive skin at his stomach as they close around the Orgasm shot. 

The other frat nuzzles down between Tim’s thighs, gooseflesh breaking out as he mouths at the Cocksucking Cowboy shot there and steals it away. The first braces a hand on either side of Tim’s hips, bowing down to lick the swirl of cream from the glass balanced on Tim’s crotch, and he swallows down a whine at the faint sensation before the frat throws back what remains of the shot. 

The two pull back to high-five one another, and Tim waits patiently for the server to clear the empty shot glasses, moving to push up into a sit. Only to be stopped when the server holds him down to the table and brandishes the remaining three shots. 

Tim stifles a groan, tensing as they line them up on his chest, navel and thighs. The green, yellow and red liqueurs gleam in the dim lighting, bouncing off the leer of the next frat boy who sucks them down greedily. The Fuzzy Navel is the first to go, followed by the G-Spot, before he climbs back up Tim’s torso to drink the Honey Dew Me on his chest. 

He knows better than to try to move again when the server steps up with the small pitcher in hand. It doesn’t prepare him for the chill of the liquid when they pour the fruit-infused champagne down Tim’s sternum. 

He yelps at the sensation, knees jolting upwards like he wants to curl into a ball. But he closes his hands into fists and resolves not to flinch when the frat dives down to sucks the liquid up. He chases it down the fall of Tim’s ribcage, into the hollow of his stomach, pausing to lick into Tim’s belly button where the champagne pools. Tim can’t stop the twitch his hand makes towards the frat when he does, but he recovers with his best customer service smile when the man rises off him with a victorious grin. 

He’s greeted with a cheer as he pulls back towards his crowd, and Tim takes that as permission for him to alight from the table. Twinka ties the rainbow scarf around his neck with a wink, making it a decorative ascot instead of what barely passed as a shirt. Probably to save it from getting messy with the alcohol still dampening Tim’s skin. He follows the server out, trailing the tray laden with now-empty glasses, back to the main floor. 

Tim feels sticky and slick down the slope of his stomach, and where the condensation has run into the divets of his chest. There’s a patch of wetness between his thighs from the chilled glass, and Tim tries not to squirm at the foreign sensation as he returns to the bar for his temporarily abandoned tray, which has been loaded with cocktails in his absence. 

“Thanks, darling,” Charla purrs when he approaches, pecking him on the cheek as she gestures to a table near the stages. “Thirty-four over there ordered the Banana Hammock. The two Dirty Birds are for twenty-seven. Go, go!” 

She bats him on the ass when he turns with tray in hand, and Tim hastens towards the patrons with a beaming smile painted on his face. 

When he arrives, Jason’s got his crotch buried in some very fortunate twink’s face, fingers threaded through his hair. He glances up and grins when Tim arrives, thrusting shallowly as he sets the Dirty Birds down with a short flourish. 

Tim goes to service thirty-four when Jason turns away from the customer and bends to grab his ankles. He has to tear his gaze away from the way the jeans pull tight against Jason’s ass or he thinks he might faint. Dick Grayson might have the best derriere in spandex, but Jason has always striven to match and surpass him. What he doesn’t have in genetics he makes up for with effort and a skilled finesse that Tim is woefully unequipped to both counter and match. 

There were no training sessions or mission briefs in the batcave for this situation, and Tim feels way out of his depth here. It’s not that undercover work isn’t his strong suit; Tim’s been shadowing villains and heroes alike longer than any of them. He knows he’s the most at ease at a gala, or a board meeting, or any number of situations where he has to pull out the Timmy Drake smile to laugh at one of Bruce’s classic Brucie Wayne jokes. Tim’s learnt from the best, the only way he knows how - shadow and imitate. He’s just graduated from wayward karate strikes in front of his bedroom mirror where his parents wouldn’t hear him to precise, direct aikido under the watchful gaze of his stoic mentor. 

Tim knows he’s most useful behind a screen, soaking up and spitting out data at a speed that could nearly rival Babs. He’s not _ bad _ at undercover work; others have just been better than him at playing up the naive John or the drunk playboy before. Projecting that confidence onto others is a skill that came to Dick like a duck takes to water. Less so for Tim himself. 

Jason, however, looks like a goddamn natural. To see Jason of all people not only surviving but thriving, as if truly in his own element, makes his head spin. It’s like he’s a whole new person, donning and shedding the skin of Jack Dickinson with nothing more than a wink and a crooked smile. There’s a self-assured ease to it that makes Tim ache with envy. 

It’s not just that Jason’s so clearly _ better _ at this than Tim - reconciling the Jason who has literally held a knife to his throat with the compassionate gentleman who diligently takes everyone at the club under his motherly wing is doing Tim’s head in. He knows Jason’s keeping tabs on everyone at the club, running a constant mental catalogue of not just suspects but victims, the servers and dancers who come from less-than-ideal domestic situations. Tim knows Jason’s prying into their private lives with a concentrated concern that’s meticulously disguised as disinterest. 

It’s why Tim knows he’s going to have to come clean about Teddy. The longer he drags this out, the more fallout there’s going to be. He’s already come to blows with Jason once and lost, stepping onto territory he didn’t even know wasn’t his to cross; he doubts Jason will be forgiving if he discovers Tim operating on his case. 

Tim’s only in this gig because a body washed up in his territory and he happened to get lucky on some dental files and tax records. _ Jason’s _ only here because another body floated up in his corner of the harbour. 

It’s sheer, awful coincidence that they’re both here, now, undercover at this club that’s lighting up alarms like a switchboard in Tim’s head. He doesn’t doubt that Jason’s getting the same vibes from the joint; something’s horribly askew, it’s just that neither of them have been able to put their finger on it. 

It’s the only reason Tim’s still here, risking his perky little ass for the chance to catch even a whiff of illegality. Because try as he might, Tim can’t pack up shop without _ something _ to show for it. He’s stubborn, or determined, or obstinate, or any number of things he’s been called before. But he can’t turn his back on this community. They’re vibrant and compassionate and protective. Tim can feel a sense of belonging here that he hasn’t in a long while. 

So he’s can’t ditch the case. But he might be able to reveal his identity to Jason, swear him to secrecy. Jason’s a reasonable guy when he wants to be. He’ll look past Tim leading him on for two not-even-remotely-straight days if he puts forth a decent case, right? 

Tim sighs, peeling away from where Jason’s gyrating slowly on the ecstatic patron, excusing himself to the bathroom to wipe off the Pollock painting of dried sugary juice that’s coating his stomach. 

The bathroom’s empty when he nudges open the door with his toe, so Tim beelines for the sink and twists the faucet, yanking a handful of towels out of the dispenser. He says a silent prayer for Yolanda’s generous glitter bath and scrubs through the remnants of alcohol and saliva. He has no clue how those frats hadn’t gotten a mouthful of glitter when they’d practically licked the shots off him. 

Tim jumps when the door is kicked in abruptly, paling when Jason’s considerable bulk shoulders through the frame. He pauses when he spots Tim, and for a second Tim’s stomach clenches on the realisation that Jason knows who he is, has finally seen through Teddy’s disguise. 

But he just clears his throat awkwardly and ambles over to the urinal. Tim tries to keep his staring down to narrow glances into the mirror’s reflection at the man’s back, trying to read his posture. He looks tense, his shoulders slightly bunched in a way that tells Tim he’s defensive but not willing to show it. He can’t tell if its anger or disappointment underscoring that stiffness though, and Tim honestly can’t tell which he hates more right now, so he focuses on scrubbing himself clean. Studiously does _ not _ look up when Jason strolls over to stick his hands in the sink directly next to Tim’s. 

He’s going to blow Tim’s cover. He’s already seen through it, and now he’s just biding time, lulling Tim into a false sense of security while he works out how he’s going to screw Tim over for deceiving him. It doesn’t escape Tim’s notice that Jason is between him and the door, entirely within arms’ reach if he decides launching into an all-out brawl in a cramped bathroom is how he wants this to play out. 

Tim swallows thickly, and opens his mouth to get ahead of the game. 

“I wanted to apologize about earlier,” Jason blurts out. 

He seems relieved when Tim turns to give him his genuinely startled frown. 

“With my comment,” he clarifies, “at the table, about your- I was trying to cheer her up, but it was a really shitty joke to make. I didn’t know you were back there, I wasn’t trying to make it seem like-” He waves his hand vaguely, trailing off lamely, and huffs a deep breath before fixing Tim with an earnest gaze. “Those all sound like excuses. I’m not about that. I’m really not that kind of guy, I promise.” 

Tim can’t help but stare, his brain flatlining on sensible responses as Jason begins to flounder again. He looks pinned, squirming uncomfortably, and Tim realises _ he’s _ doing that. He forces himself to smile, curling his pink-glossed lips and tilting his head slightly to convey just how much he doesn’t need Jason to be panicking over him right now. 

“It’s okay,” Tim tells him with a casual lift of his pale shoulder. “I’ve heard worse.” 

He means for it to be dismissive, and unfortunately Jason takes it at face value, his features descending into a self-chastising scowl. His gaze skim down the bared expanse of Tim’s chest, making him flush softly under the attention, tracking the scars Tim’s done his damnedest to paint over with a heavy layer of foundation - foundation now smeared on the wad of paper towels in Tim’s sink. 

He realises with a flutter of panic what they probably look like to Jason; more than unkind words visited on a kid who as far as Jason’s concerned, has very distinct roots in the queer community. His suspicions are confirmed when Jason’s gaze lifts to the rainbow tie around his throat, tugged just low enough that Tim know his scar - the scar _ Jason _ gave him - is visible. 

Teddy’s as good as dead and buried. There’s no way Jason wouldn’t remember that encounter on Gotham’s rooftops not four years ago, the crisp Autumn air fogging between them in harsh pants, Tim’s hands scrambling desperately for Jason’s throat, his eyes, for a weakness, for a sore point, as he’d leaned his weight down on the palm on Tim’s throat and shifted to draw out a second blade from his belt. Tim’s pulse heavy in his eardrums, pumping blood from the gushing wound on his neck, too deep, too shallow, and not enough for Jason. 

Tim can still feel the ghost of the gritted pavement grinding against his spine, his windpipe thick in his throat. He’s so wrapped up in the memory that he almost misses Jason’s absent reach for the ascot at his throat, and Tim flinches, far harder than he intends to, before he can curb it. 

Jason looks like he might as well have kicked him. He retracts his hand quickly, shoving it into his pockets as he glares down at the tile, self-admonishment knitted into his brow. And Tim has the startling realization that Jason _ honestly _ doesn’t recognise him. Doesn’t remember that night. Doesn’t remember the scar. 

Tim can’t quite tell if the coldness that seeps into the pit of his stomach is relief or disappointment. 

“It’s not okay,” Jason tells him firmly, eyes flickering up. “I’d punch the shit out of someone who said what I did, so it’s only fair. Go ahead, hit me. One free shot. I deserve it.” 

To Tim’s mounting horror, he holds out his arms, letting his eyes flutter closed. Open, vulnerable. Tim’s gaze speeds over the curve of his shoulders, that expanse of chest peeking beneath his unbuttoned plaid shirt, his narrow waist, his fucking _ thighs- _

Tim realizes he hasn’t moved, and quickly aims a soft jab at Jason’s open midsection, wincing when he does so. He unfurls his hand guiltily the instant he touches warm skin, flattening the palm along the ridges of his chiseled abdomen. Tim pauses then, the air fleeing him in a rush as he realizes he’s touching Jason Todd. _ The _ Jason Todd, former Robin, _ Tim’s _ Robin, in the flesh. That fact that he’s not actively trying to shish-kabob Tim is just an added bonus. 

When Tim glances up, a little starstruck, he notices Jason is staring down at him surprised and a little perplexed. Heat rushes to Tim’s cheekbones, and he snatches his hand back hastily. A smile tugs at the corner of Jason’s lips, cementing Tim’s fate as the most useless Jason Todd fanboy this side of Gotham. 

“Do I have to teach you how to punch?” Jason asks with a quirked brow. 

Tim nearly laughs. It comes out a little choked, his mouth not moving properly around the sound at the thought of Jason Todd teaching _ him _ to punch. Like Tim doesn’t know how to punch. Like Tim wouldn’t want lessons from his childhood hero. 

Luckily, Jason seems to take it in good-natured stride, his expression smoothing out as Tim tries to shove down the heat crawling up his chest and neck. 

“N-No, I’m good,” he assures him with a flash of a smile. 

The smile Jason returns transports Tim back to nights crouched on fire escapes, the broad, warm joy of Robin’s grin filling his camera lens. It looks just as right on Jason’s features now as it had back then. 

“Well…” Jason rubs the back of his neck, looking a little embarrassed. “My names Jack. Jack Dickinson. I’d like it if you and I could be friends.” 

Tim blinks, studiously does not offer his hand. He’s pretty sure it’s smeared in an ungodly amount of alcohol and glitter, and no doubt shaking from the shock of the conversation. “Teddy.” 

Jason seems to acquiesce to the stage name easily enough, polite enough not to pry for a surname. 

“We can be friends,” Teddy agrees, quickly, unsure if his response counted as a clear acceptance. He chews his lower lip, an old habit. “And thank you. For setting the record straight.” 

Jason smiles again, knocking the air from Tim in what feels like an unfair amount of times for a single evening, and straightens a bit where he slouches against the sink. Tim doesn’t miss the faint sheen of red beneath the sprinkle of freckles high on his cheekbones as he starts backwards for the door. 

“Cool,” he calls back, still retreating. “That’s good. Great! If you need anything, just let me know, yeah?” 

Then he ducks out of the bathroom without a backwards glance, and Tim determinedly locks down the last errant hopes he’d had of revealing his cover and coming out of this unscathed. 

* * *

Art by **ride-the-dinos**. Please go send them your love over [here](https://ride-the-dinos.tumblr.com/ask)! 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song of the night is "Milkshake" by Kelis.


	3. First Responder Friday

Tim packs down Friday morning with a fuzzy head and the bone-deep weariness only minimum wage hospitality servers can know. He’s helping dry the last of the glasses with Charla when the curtain at the back of the house flies open and Twinka Belle storms out. 

He’s dressed down to sweatpants and a loose crop top, his hair unkempt and mussed as he stalks across the floor, a duffel hitched over his shoulder. Charla glances up as he approaches with vehement fury, and Tim jumps a foot in the air when he all but slams his cell down onto the counter. 

“One of these days that fucking asshole is going to piss off some six foot gay bear, and get his fucking throat mauled out,” Twinka snaps with such black fury that Tim recoils. Charla hums in easy agreement and takes the cell into her palm, an acrylic nail scrolling up the line of texts as Twinka perches on a stool. 

Charla’s brow pulls into a deeper scowl the further down she gets, and Tim finds himself leaning surreptitiously forward. Her head snaps up abruptly, admonishment in her gaze. “How long have you had these? How long has he been messaging you?” 

Twinka snags a wet shot glass from Tim’s pile and upturns it, holding out an impatient palm for a bottle. Charla presses one into his palm and sets the cell phone down. 

Tim watches him throw back the shot and sneer, “Almost a month now. Ever since Domi kicked it, pretty much.” 

“Domi?” Tim interjects sharply, his memory catching on the name. 

Twinka gives him a scathing smile that Tim feels isn’t genuinely intended for him, and braces an arm over the counter, shoulder jutting. “Remember those bodies that floated up in the harbour and the cops started poking around here for all of three minutes before writing it off as a mob hit?” When Tim nods, Twinka adds in a mutter, “One of those was Domi.” 

“He used to work the pole,” Charla provides, tapping an absent nail on the screen, her lips downturning. “He was a great kid. Real golden heart, you know?” 

“With one colossal cunt of an older brother,” Twinka mutters, and Charla scowls. 

“_Abel,_” she snaps, and Twinka rolls his eyes. “Domi wouldn’t have wanted to hear you say that then, and he wouldn’t want you to say it now.” 

“The guy’s a fucking loser,” Twinka sneers, lip curling as he thrusts a finger towards the unlocked screen. “Take a fucking sip, babe.” 

Charla’s eyes travel down to the array of messages and stay there. “Why didn’t you tell me he was messaging you again?” 

“What difference does it make? He’s not getting shit out of me,” Twinka responds. “He can fucking choke; I’m not giving him a single cent. He thinks he can come in here, cause all hell of problems for Domi and Yolanda, and then just start blackmailing me the instant his too-good-to-say-no brother’s bank account dries up? I don’t give a flying fuck if he’s some bigshot gangster. He can send as many enforcers as he wants; I’ll bite every last one’s cock off and mail them straight back to him.” 

“Does he know where you live?” Charla asks, and Twinka flinches, but offers a bitter laugh as he pours another shot. Charla calmly hands the bottle to Tim, who sequesters it neatly underneath the counter when Twinka tips the glass back. 

“Of course he fucking knows where I live,” Twinka mutters with the first hint of fear Tim’s heard from the man. “Tracked Domi’s phone back to my apartment one night when Domi wasn’t answering his texts. Walked in on me blowing him and threw a fucking fit. I would have glassed the asshole if Domi hadn’t been there to save the prick.” 

Tim’s brain is a hive of alarm bells. Domi’s brother sounds like the first genuinely violent lead he’s come across so far, and he’s already inching closer to Charla so he can catalogue the contact number for the guy, to investigate later. “He ever hurt Dominik?” 

“Who, Francis?” Twinka replies, and scoffs. “Emotionally, financially or physically? Because the answer is yes across the board.” 

Charla turns a sharp eye on him. “You didn’t tell me he was hitting Domi.” 

Twinka shrugs and scrunches his face into disgust, licking at the dregs in his shot glass. “What’s the difference? You gotta beat a guy down with your fists to justify a restraining order these days? Talking a guy into nearly offing himself isn’t bad enough for you?” 

“Don’t take that tone with me,” Charla says sternly, and Twinka cows. Tim wonders what sort of relationship they have that Twinka would defer to her so quickly. “I’m asking because I didn’t know he was physically abusive. I knew about the financial and emotional stuff, but if I’d known he was threatening you with physical violence, I would have stepped in much sooner.” 

“I don’t need a fucking chaperone,” Twinka spits, shoving up from the counter. “I don’t need anyone to hold my fucking hand. He’s a dirtbag, sleazeball, piece of scum who took advantage of the only decent person in his life, and Domi paid the price for it, over and over again.” 

“You think he killed Domi?” Tim asks into the silence that follows, his tone soft and tentative, grim. 

Twinka stills, glass still in-hand, but he doesn’t look angry, just sad. “No,” he says finally, and sets the shot down, rubbing a hand over his mouth. “He used to shove Domi around, but he never- He’d never hit him. Couldn’t bring himself to do it, big gangster prick that he was,” he adds with a bitter laugh that serrates Tim’s insides. “He doesn’t have the balls to do something like that to Domi, to gut him like a fucking fish and-” 

He cuts off abruptly, straightening into a stiff sit. His palm flies up to swipe beneath his eye, smearing what remains of his mascara as he glares at the timber. Then he shoves to his feet, stooping to retrieve his duffel. He looks tired beneath Tim’s scrutinising gaze, and he pockets his cell phone without meeting either of their gazes. 

“I’m going home,” he announces in a dull tone. “I’ve already clocked out. Thanks for the D&M.” 

“Abel, you’re not going back to-” 

“What?” he snaps, bristling. “My own fucking apartment? That prick doesn’t get to just shoulder me out of my own fucking home, alright? I’m not _ scared _ of him, Charla. I’m not. If he comes near me again, I’ll kill him. That’s a promise.” 

Charla’s brow tugs into that of a concerned, furious parent. “You’re not going there. You’re going to do something rash, and-” 

“Fuck off,” Twinka drawls, but it’s lacking bite. He crosses around the counter and heads for the door. “I’ll see you tonight. And I’ll text you when I get home.” 

Tim’s already shucking his apron and dishtowel by the time the front door swings shut behind him, and Charla barks a, “Where are you going?” at him as he jogs after the disappearing man. 

“Just going to check on him,” Tim offers over his shoulder, and shoves open the door. “Be back in a minute.” 

He catches up to Twinka on the sidewalk, flagging him down. He startles the man when he touches his shoulder, and Twinka flings his hand off with a wide-eyed panic before he recognises Tim. 

Tim freezes, because Twinka’s face is streaked with tears, his fists clenched white as Tim stares. 

“What?” he snaps, impatient, and doesn’t try to smear the tears away. His chin juts up, as if he’s too proud to admit he’s been caught crying. 

“I know a place you can stay,” Tim blurts, and Twinka frowns. 

“I told you,” he presses irritably, “I’m not leaving-” 

“I know,” Tim cuts him off, agitation flaring and waning just as quickly. “But I’ve got a friend who’s out of town and could lend you a flat for a bit.” He’s sure Steph won’t mind him offering her spare safehouse flat. It's just like a hotel room, and he's pretty sure there isn't anything incriminating inside. He doesn’t mention to Twinka that a girl in a bat costume is about to wreck Francis’ night with some freshly broken bones and possible a roundhouse kick to the teeth. 

Twinka blinks at him, a little stunned. “You don’t know me,” he says hollowly, and Tim frowns. 

“What? I’ve known you for-” 

“I know what I said,” Twinka snaps, and then softens with a semi-hysterical shake of his head. “Teddy, you’ve known me a week. And I’ve just dumped all my shit on your plate, like some sort of asshole. You’re not supposed to be helping me. That’s not what people do.” 

“It’s not a problem,” Tim begins, and Twinka cuts him off again. 

“I’m not the sort of person you want to be getting into bed with,” Twinka warns him, and then amends, “figuratively speaking. I’m not making my shit your shit. Francis is my problem, and I’m going to deal with him. Clean cut and simple. No one else has to get involved. No one else has to get hurt.” 

Tim’s smile is sharp when he shakes his head. 

“Will you at least just stay at my friend’s flat tonight? Just until the morning. You’ve been working all day and you aren’t going to be facing him at your best,” he points out. 

This time Twinka wavers. It’s been a busy night for them both, carrying heavy trays and rushing around like rodents until they were ready to drop with the slew of drink specials for Thirsty Thursday. All in high heels to boot, and while Tim is in great shape even his own feet are killing him. 

“Please?” Tim flutters his lashes, touching Twinka’s arm. The other server heaves a long, frustrated groan. 

“Okay, okay, fine!” Twinka acquiesces, sagging under the weight of his duffel bag. “But I’m paying you. I’m not owing anyone any favors.” 

Tim almost tells him not to bother, but cuts the protest off. He’ll just slip the money back to him tomorrow at work, but his goal is achieved. They work out a price, Twinka serving up a cool hundred-fifty, which he counts out in mostly two dollar bills. Tim can’t remember the last time he saw so many of the obscure greenbacks. 

“One hundred fifty,” Twinka says with firm finally, placing the last single dollar bill atop the thick stack in Tim’s palm. 

There is no way Tim is going to be able to slip it back to the other server without arousing suspicion, and he realizes with a start that Twinka is doing it on purpose. He shoulders his duffel with grim defensiveness when Tim pulls out his cell to call him a taxi, looking a little astounded and a pinch distrustful. 

“You’re a good kid, Teddy,” Twinka informs him off-handedly when his taxi arrives. Tim nearly laughs, but shrugs it off. People who can lie to others as easily as Tim can aren’t exactly the best example of ‘good’, but it’s Gotham City and everything is subjective here. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Tim tells him through the opened window, and waits until the car has disappeared around the corner before he drags out his commlink and stuffs it into his ear, turning back for the club. “Hey, Steph? You in the mood to go spoil some asshole’s night?” 

* * *

Steph greets him in the kitchen when he arrives, and she’s entirely too perky this early in the morning for his wretched soul. How she has any energy at all at this hour is a mystery deserving of a seven-person investigative team, but one day Tim will find the time to figure it out himself - but today is definitely not the day. 

He’s just glad she’s taking over patrol for him with Robin while Bruce is in on a space crusade with the Justice League, because after the last few nights he’s had he doesn’t think he could take Damian’s award winning personality without throttling the little bastard (again). Especially with how raw he’s feeling after Twinka’s confession. 

She’s busying herself with what looks like a tiny crockpot on the kitchen counter, humming some pop tune under her breath as she peers into the swirling mixture. It’s a good sign, honestly; it’d taken Tim several months to work up enough of a poker face not to wince at the first mouthful of the Stephanie Brown Crockpot Concoction when she first started experimenting, but now he doesn’t even have to. 

Coffee is already brewing when he ambles over to the breakfast counter, and she’s set out his favorite mug - the big one that looks like a prescription bottle for caffeine pills. It was the last gift she’d bought him before they broke up, both deciding that they made for better friends than lovers. 

She watches him pour cup after cup of the dank drip, patiently waiting until he’s properly refueled before she ventures into verbal communication. 

“So I take it you had a long night.” She folds her arms, leaning the small of her back against the counter while he cleans out the coffee filter.

“I did,” he grunts, knowing damn well she can tell from the sag of his shoulders and the full on cake-face he’s sporting. He’s still reeling from the last few nights and the dramatic mascara weighs his already tired lids down further. All he wants to do is succumb to the sweet bliss of sleep for the next eight hours and not think about anything. 

Steph sidles up next to him as he sips, peering at his visage with a critical eye. “Goddamn that eyeliner is on _ point_. You’re prettier than me!” 

She squints, not seeming to mind that her previous work has paled in comparison to the sultry, smoky cat-eyed look he’s sporting. While his make up had gotten a pass on Tuesday, last night it had not. Apparently he needed classes on how to make the most of his natural eye shape according to Charla; Yolanda had made him wash it all off and start anew. Then she’d taken over once the stagehand had properly beaten his face into submission with a powder puff and spread a liberal amount of glitter highlighter onto his skin. The queen had been confidently pleased when she’d finished his covetous cat-eye, declaring he was finally worthy of stepping out onto the show floor. 

“I’m... sorry?” he flounders. 

“Don’t be.” She waves off his apology with an easy grin. “But I am going to make you give me tips. You could cut a diamond with that line.” 

Tim gives her a tired little smile, revitalised by Steph’s bright charm, and curls himself up on a stool as Steph takes the crockpot off the counter. “What’s for breakfast?” 

Steph grins knowingly and tilts the tiny crockpot towards him to reveal the surprisingly pale and gelatinous liquid stewing within. Tim blanches, suddenly on alert. 

“Is that-” 

“Oh, yeah,” Steph croons, and transfers the crockpot to the table, sweeping an arm across it to dislodge the array of debris left from her daily life. She pats the cleared wood comfortingly, beckoning him over. There is a box of popsicle sticks and a stack of cut linen strips sitting innocently on a nearby chair, context clues he was too tired to pick up on before but which adrenaline is helpfully pointing out to him now.

“No,” Tim says definitively. 

Steph rolls her eyes, stirring her pot of bikini wax ominously. “Don’t be such a baby. It’ll only hurt for a second.” 

Tim whimpers in reply, drawing his limbs up. 

* * *

They order in chow mein while Tim’s recovering from the sensation in his nether regions and trying to sweep up the remains of his dignity. 

“So how’s patrol with the bat-baby?” Tim asks as he stabs into his takeout container with his fork. “He revealed himself to be an absolute asshole yet?” 

Steph shovels a forkful of noodles into her mouth. “I don’t see why you’ve got beef with Shortstack 2.0.” 

Tim pauses to fix her with what he hopes is a withering look. “He tried to kill me, Steph.” 

Steph snorts indelicately. “Yeah, but so did Jason, and you haven’t had any trouble letting that infraction go.”

Tim knows he flushes red, because he feels unbearably hot down every visible inch of skin. All he can think about is the way Jason’s back curved as he sat astride another man, his shapely thighs in high relief as he leaned back seductively, ass pressed firmly to the customer’s obvious erection. How Jason’s body had bounced ever-so-slightly against the pitiful, jolting thrusts, and how he’d just _ allowed _ it without eviscerating the unaware idiot beneath him as he was dry humped. How warm the man’s skin felt beneath his hand, how his abdomen had flexed with the inhale, how vulnerable he’d been for Tim, how exposed. 

“That’s,” he stutters, and scowls. “I don’t--It’s not the same!” Steph arches a brow, evidently not buying his bullshit as she sucks down a stray noodle. Tim strategically changes tact. “He was under the Pit’s influence, and Jason’s not Damian.”

She laughs at him. “The kid was with the League of Assassins till he was almost ten. That’s about as bad as a dunkaroo in the goo. They aren’t really that much different if you think about it.”

Tim has not thought about it, aside from definitively labeling Damian as a shifty little gremlin with a sword that’s hungry for his blood 24/7, and Jason as a hulking brute who could shank him but won’t unless he gives him a good reason. Like becoming a villain who hurts children, for instance. Tim knows there is logic behind Jason’s violence, which means rationally he can avoid pushing the man’s buttons if he can ever work out where they lie - whereas Damian’s is always unpredictable. The two aren’t similar in the least, he grouses. 

She shrugs, unfazed by his argument. “Well, they’re alike in that they were both really tiny and now they aren’t. Jason’s built like a shit brickhouse, but I think the kid might overtake him and end up with Bruce’s physique.” She affects a dazed look, gaze far off when she adds, “Bruce’s smokin’ hot bod but Talia’s mind. _ Yum_.” 

“Are you,” Tim begins, and has to wrench himself out of that nosedive of a thought. “Are you trying to make me barf? Because I’m gonna hurl all over your floor.” 

“Hey, don’t act like I’m the weird one! I’m not the one who chased the Batman and Robin all over Gotham city taking up-cape shots in the night,” Steph teases him, pinching his now silky smooth leg. He winces because her grip strength is enough to make a man twice his size cry. 

Tim has the unshakeable urge to smack her. “I don't think I've ever hated you more than I do at this exact moment,” he confesses, and glares at Steph’s grin. “Ignoring the fact that Damian is legally my fifteen year old _ brother _ and the spawn of Satan - _ Bruce _? Really?” 

Steph makes a noncommittal noise, waving an absent hand through the air. “Damian’s not my cup of tea, obviously. But Bruce does have physique, even you have to admit.” At Tim’s bloodless, horrified stare, she shrugs. “I don't have to renege on my position that the man is a colossal cockwaffle to admit he’s got a hot bod.” 

Tim groans and contemplates the likelihood of him being able to knock himself out on the coffee table. If he angles it right… 

“It’s called objectification, Tim,” Steph advises sagely. “It’s how the rest of us deal with being single.” 

Tim offers her his most deadpan expression. “You are literally the worst half-human half-eggplant hybrid I've ever met.” 

She returns a middle finger. “You can’t judge. You stalked two teenage beefcakes _ and _ Batman through Gotham for _ years_. And I’ve seen the lovey-dovey eyes you make at Conner.” 

“Lovey-dovey?!” Tim sputters, “are you smoking crack? I am not nor have I ever looked at Conner like some lovesick-” 

“You tried to clone him, Tim.” 

“I was in a really bad place, okay?!” he finally blows up, slamming his takeout container down onto the cheap parsons coffee table. “It wasn’t just Conner, I tried to bring my Dad back too.”

Steph recoils a little at his indignation, having the decency to look a little ashamed of herself before he realizes how loud he was.

“Sorry,” he breathes, running a hand through his hair. The styling products in it are softer than the gel he’s used to, so it swoops easily with the motion and silkily glides back into place over his eyes again. “I don’t like Conner like that. It wasn’t just me either; Cassie joined a cult, you know?” 

He regrets bringing up Conner’s ex-girlfriend because it doesn’t actually help his case. Stephanie narrows her eyes at him, scrutinising him. Giving up, he facepalms and changes the subject entirely. 

“Can we just talk about the case?”

“Sure,” Steph smirks, juggling her takeout box on the top of her knees. Tim can’t help but be quietly awed by how much talent the woman has when she’s completely unaware of it. “Let’s talk about how your very straight ass is undercover in a gay male strip club and you’re here to report to me, your resident overlord.” 

“Overlord? _ Really?_” Tim squints.

“Well, the club is located in my patrol territory, so I think I can call myself whatever I want,” she sniffs imperiously, but the grin marrs her poise. She scrapes the last bit of delicious noodles out of her carton, and subtly reaches for his own abandoned box. “But yeah, go off.” 

“I wanted to ask if you’d followed up on that lead I sent you about the victim’s brother,” Tim sighs. 

“Sure did.” Steph flashes a grin, punching her fist into her palm. “I beat his mangy ass like his Momma shoulda. I also had Oracle dig into his background. Nothing connects him to these alleged traffickers so far. We’re gonna delve into the gang he belongs to as well to be on the safe side.” 

Tim twitches. 

“You talked to Oracle about this?” 

“Well, I can’t exactly do what she does,” Steph hums. “You know I’m good at punching, but not so much at the typing. Laptops just aren’t as receptive to blunt force trauma.” 

He shivers a little, turning over the implications of Oracle surveilling the club and what this might do to Jason. They might not have been ‘friends’ per say, but he’ll do all he can not to humiliate the man. 

“I don’t want her inside the club,” he says sharply. 

“What?” Stephanie startles. “But-” 

“No cameras, no audio,” Tim insists firmly. “I don’t mind her checking into suspects, but I don’t want her hacking into the club. It’s my case, and I don’t want to tip anyone off that they’re being looked into.” Steph tilts her head, before something clicks.

“You just don’t want her to see you all dolled up!” she accuses with a grin. 

“No.” He shakes his head. “It’s not me.”

“What do you mean then?” Steph’s smile fades, worry beginning to seep into her features. 

He’s not sure he should tell her the truth, but it is her territory, and Jason is trespassing in it. She might not care about Jason’s presence, but she will care if he’s trying to pull the wool over her. And besides, he and Steph made a pact after breaking up that they would always be honest with one another. 

“Jason is there.” Tim’s cheeks are growing warm again, and he looks at the floor to avoid her scrutiny. “He’s- he’s a dancer.”

“_No,_” Stephanie gasps.

“Y-yes.” He peeks up at her and she’s smiling so wide that his stomach sinks. “Steph, no.”

“Steph, YES.” She stands, marching into her bedroom. “Finally, some fine ass man-tiddy to ogle, and Jason’s got the _ best _ rack.” She wiggles her fingers like a maniacal raccoon, much to Tim’s mounting horror.

“Steph, please, you can’t!” 

He bolts after her, watching in mute terror as she begins to tear outfits out of her closet. “He doesn’t know I’m there, he doesn’t even know I’m on this case!”

That gives her pause as she holds up a purple plaid blazer that looks to be straight out of the movie Clueless. Tim watches her run a quick series of complex mathematical sequences through her head. 

“Wait a minute, you’ve been there almost a week!” she accuses, and that devious curl of a grin returns. “Oh, Timmy, have you been bad?” 

Tim flushes hot, and strides forward to snatch the blazer out of her grip. 

She shrugs, digging around the dresser for a bottom to go with it. Tim feels like he’s going to melt into the floor when she stoops to dig for something in the last drawer, and he spots what looks distinctly like lace panties. Perhaps diversion is the tried and true technique to go with here. 

“I, uh.” Tim rubs his arm. “He kinda didn’t... recognize me?” He cringes when she spins to fix him with a piercing stare.

The connection is practically visible when she makes it, eyes growing shiny and bright like a kid on Christmas morning. She shakes her hands out, biting her lower lip, emitting a high pitched noise that he knows is the beginning peal of laughter reminiscent of a hyena. Burying his face in his hands he groans, voice muffled.

“Just _ promise _ me you won’t blow my cover, okay?” 

* * *

Jason has to admit that pole dancing has actually helped his mobility and grip strength training better than hitting the gym and doing his boring old routine workout. The drawback is that the waistbands of his tactical cargos are looser than usual, which means he’s going to have to take in the seams again. He’s pretty sure he could crush walnuts with his abs doing situps though, so it’s worth the tailoring. 

The pimp he’s got slammed up against the wall with one fist feels lighter to him than the man probably is, and he doesn’t have that same stiffness to his joints that use to bother him in the mornings. He lets him go and winds up to send a blow that will probably break something in the pimp physically as well as spiritually. 

He’s noticed that the flexibility in his hips and legs is much better as well. While he will never be Dick-fucking-Grayson, he can safely put any other gymnast to shame with the way his leg easily comes up parallel to his torso when he kicks up into the pimp’s chin, shattering the teeth and jawbone beyond repair. _ Get wrecked_, he thinks wickedly. 

Trina Dodson is smoking off to the side, watching him beat the shit out of the dirtbag who’d been threatening to shank her for not handing over all her take for the night. She’s been doing this for so long that Jason knew she could handle the switchblade tucked in her back pocket like a pro, but he was in a mood and the former pimp had been causing issues with some of the younger girls too. 

“You’re in a good mood.” 

“You know me,” he laughs mechanically through the helmet. “Nothing makes me happier than keeping the pimp hand strong on these motherfuckers.” 

She takes another long drag of her cigarette, watching him clean the blood off his shoe with the guy’s expensive Gucci suit. It’s only after she puckers her lips and blows the hit off to the side that she speaks again.

“What can I do for you tonight, Mister Hood?” She has never been one to beat around bushes, which he likes. She’s a great informant, straight to the point and ruthless. 

“I was going to ask if you’d heard anything else about those traffickers from the pier cases.” He zipties the downed man, not caring if it’s more of a tourniquet than restraint. 

“Mnnh.” She shrugs her shoulder lazily, leaning back against the brick as she grinds the butt of her cigarette out under her high heel. “Nothing that you ain’t heard already. There are a couple girls missin’ from the high street, but they usually party with weekenders. If they don’t check in by Monday I’ll let you know.” 

He frowns, disappointed. 

“Anything else I should know about?” He watches the cars pass by their alley, speeding up when their headlights illuminate the scene they make. 

Trina looks contemplative for a moment. “Well, there were a couple twerps flashing some cash around last week. Ain’t seen em before, and I ain’t about to get slashed for quick cash.” She laughs, tucking a hand in her jacket pocket. 

“Description.” 

She smirks at him, jerking her chin up sharply. 

“Money, honey.” 

He sighs, plucking his petty cash from the interior pocket of his leather coat. She practically moans at the sight of the roll he produces, reaching up to trail her fingers along the inside of his arm.

“You know, you could convince me to be Pretty Woman,” she teases as she waits for him to count out the bills. Three hundred is their usual, but he adds another hundred, to her surprise.

“Sorry, I’m not the settling type,” he tells her flatly, offering the money between two of his gloved fingers. “But I don’t mind being sugar daddy so long as you got the info for me.”

She plucks it from his grasp and makes a show of daintily tucking it between her ample breasts. Despite his reputation as a bruiser, she knows she’s never seen the Red Hood attack the working girls in the Narrows, and no matter how bratty she gets with him he’s always patient. So he waits like a dog for a bone while she checks her phone, deleting a few messages first before she goes to her gallery and opens the picture she took. It’s not a very decent one, blurry and poorly lit. 

“These dudes.” She turns the phone towards him, enlarging the photo for him, where it shows three skinny wimps in all black clothing chatting up a prostitute across the street from the photographer’s location. They are all turned away from the camera, so Jason won’t be able to snag facial recognition, but at least he’ll be able to look out for skinny, short, black clad johns that are new to the block. 

“You said they were just flashing cash. Anything else?” He taps the hood, the AI program Roy installed doing it’s magic by snagging the photo off her phone. “I mean, it’s illegal to solicit, but it’s Gotham. Not exactly abnormal. What bothered you so much that you noticed them?”

“...You know the Arkhamites right?” Trina mutters after a moment. “Well I’ve only seen one once. The Hatter dude. You don’t forget the look in their eyes.” Jason agrees whole heartedly, thinking of purple velvet suits and twisted red stained lips. To a civilian like her it was probably a haunting experience, but to him it’s just another day that ends in Y. “These dudes had a bit of that look. I dunno, something was off man. I trust my gut and it’s kept me alive all these years so…” 

“If they come around again, call me.” He tells her shortly, moving back to the shadowed corner of the alley where the fire escape is hung low enough for him to swing up. “Keep the girls away from those guys.”

Trina salutes him sarcastically as he grapples away, not leaving her corner until he’s long gone. 

* * *

Tim forces his best customer service smile on his lips. The wicked eyeliner and the shine of gloss must improve on how absolutely mortified he feels, because Steph just offers him a placid smile. He effects a neat little curtsey and grits out in a bright chirp, “Hi, I’m Teddy Bare, your server. What will be your pleasure tonight?” 

Steph’s smile doesn’t grow, but she beckons him in with a crook of her finger. Tim tries to skewer her with just his eyes, and totters forward in his heels. He leans down to offer his ear in the midst of the throbbing bassline of _ Anaconda. _

“I want to order your finest cocktail,” Steph declares, and taps the corner of the credit card against the laminated menu. “Says here that the Daily O’s signature cocktail is an espresso martini.” 

Tim’s smile feels like it could scorch an ocean. “You’d be absolutely right, darlin’,” he chirps in a voice that’s at least an octave too high, and hefts his notepad. “Can I put you down for a martini?” 

“Sure thing, doll,” Steph purrs, and Tim _ hates her. _

He makes a special point of stepping on her toes when he plucks the card from her fingers, and ignores her bright cackle when it follows him to the bar. Tim leans his elbows up on the wood and shouts towards Charla, “Need an espresso martini for table four.” 

Charla’s brows rise, and she nips off the Liquid Lust she’s pouring, transferring it onto Twinka’s tray. He spins away with a beaming grin, hips sashaying in the tight yellow shorts hugging him like a second skin, fire truck red harness tight where it crosses over his bare chest. 

“One Daily Grind?” she asks, taking the card. “How big’s the tab?” 

“I’ll ask,” Tim promises, and watches her duck beneath the counter, pulling out a folded square of dark fabric. Tim frowns. “What’s that?” 

“You any good at quick change outfits?” Charla says with a curl of a heavily glittered smile, yanking up her ingredients as Tim unfolds the square. It’s a parody of a forest green Starbucks apron, only the two-tailed mermaid logo on the chest doesn’t leave it to the viewer’s imagination. When Tim holds it up to inspection, he notes that he’ll be lucky if this covers his manhood. 

“Tell me I can wear this over my outfit,” Tim deadpans. When Charla grins, his brow pinches. “Tell me it comes with pants,” he begs. 

Charla snorts, pausing in crushing a handful of coffee beans to snag a finger in the two loops at the very bottom of the apron. “Legs through here, honey. Tie that waistband nice and tight unless you want to go full monty while grinding up on Miss Moneybags over there.” 

Tim swallows down his mortification with a sigh, quick stepping to the bathroom to change out his outfit. It bares his ass completely when he shoulders out of the door, and Tim almost wishes he had that stupid bunnytail butt plug to offer him some decency now. 

Charla’s sprinkling the top of a wicked looking espresso when he returns, propping it up on his tray with doe-eyed care. “Drinks up for table four. Give her the best damn lapdance of your life, Teddy-baby.” 

Tim offers her a weak smile, tugging surreptitiously at the hem, trying to pull it lower. He’s not successful, and Charla just laughs as she pushes his tray towards him. “Thanks, Charla,” he mutters, and lifts it onto his shoulder. 

He makes sure to work a sway into his gait when he returns to Steph’s table, aware that several other patrons’ attentions have been drawn by his strut. He stoops to set the martini glass on the table, smile glittering. “Your Daily Grind, ma’am.” 

Steph’s jaw drops a little when she drags her gaze down the snugly tied apron, but it’s swamped almost immediately by a wolfish grin. “Holy shit.” 

Tim leans forward to wrap his fingers over her shoulders, straddling her thighs as she gives a high-pitched squeal of delight. He keeps the grin painted onto his features, focusing on keeping the thin fabric between his groin and her stupid checked pantsuit as he grinds up against her abdomen. 

“Holy _ fuck_,” Steph gasps, breath hot against his throat and tinged with barely contained laughter. “You are _ bare _down there.” 

Tim presses out between his gleaming teeth, “Hold. Still.” 

Then he pulls back, sliding back onto the balls of his feet, and does a little spin, before shoving her knees together so he can stand over them. In his ridiculous red heels, it’s hardly a challenge. He wraps a hand around the back of Steph’s neck, rolling the length of his body towards her in slow, pointed thrusts. 

Steph’s hand jumps up, finger tugging up quickly at the edge of the apron, and Tim shoves a hand down to preserve his dignity. He hooks a red heel into the booth’s leather next to her hip, leaning down to her other ear as he gyrates into her. 

“I will break your finger,” Tim warns, curling the words around a beaming smile. 

“Tragic,” Steph replies, and snaps one of the elastic loops around the back of his thigh. It bites into the sensitive flesh where Tim’s thigh meets ass, and he yelps, jolting forward. 

“I’m dyeing all your outfits black,” he growls, and when Steph gasps in horror, he knows he has her. “You’re gonna look like goth Bruce trash.” 

“That’s cruel,” Steph hisses, and Tim pries himself away from her, flashing her a grin. 

“Enjoy your drink!” 

* * *

Yolanda smears some charcoal-colored effect makeup in artful streaks over Jason’s bare chest and stomach before he dons the costume for his act. He raises a bemused brow, intrigue tugging his lips when the Queen takes hold of his hand between her own and rubs the ebony dust all over his digits. She repeats the action with the other, while Jason tolerates it with the good humor of a pampered show dog. 

“A little much, don’t you think?” he asks, looking down at his blackened hands. It’s hard not to think about warehouses, and he centers himself with a deep inhalation. 

“Trust me, sugar, people will love it,” she winks. “Especially when you’re out there on the floor getting them dirty. It’s interactive stage show.” 

He nods, contemplating it before he snags the suspenders hanging off the sides of his tearaway pants and pulls them up over his broad shoulders. Yolanda fusses over him again, straightening the waistband of his trousers before she helps him into the coat. A hard hat finishes the look, securely fastened with a strap under his jaw, the brim further shadowing his eyes.

“There you go, hot stuff.” She smooths her hands over his shoulders and down his arms, brushing off imaginary lint. Stepping back she admires her handiwork, one arm folded across her diaphragm to rest her elbow on the palm of her hand as she cups her chin with the other. “It needs something else.” 

He shrugs, crooking his lips into a grin again. “Well, I’m pretty much decked to the gills, Landa.” 

“Oh, I know!” 

She brightens, hurrying away. He blanches when she returns with a length of fire hose that looks suspiciously like the real deal. She wraps it over his shoulders like some sort of manly feather boa, before booping the end of his nose. 

“There’s a trick to this: if you push this button on the base of the nozzle, it’ll let out a spray of glitter and confetti.” She shows him the small button tucked just at the rim where hose meets nozzle. “Single use only though, so use it wisely! Now you are ready for your adoring fans.” 

“This…” He inspects the homemade device, alarm bells ringing in the back of his head. “This isn’t a prop. It's almost like a homemade bomb.” Yolanda’s face has lost some of its glitz, the shine dulling into something hard and dark. 

“No almost about it, honey. That hose isn’t gonna hurt you, it doesn’t have the power to do more than push out some glitter and paper bits, but yes, it is what you think.” She sighs, planting her hands on her hips. “Back when we first got here,” she gestures to the room at large, encompassing the entirety of the club, “we weren’t exactly welcome. People were always starting something, and cops were coming here trying to shut us down. We learned to fight back. I made little spark bombs to throw at assholes and scare them off. No worse than firecrackers really, but they did the trick.”

Jason listens, before he latches onto a small detail in her story. 

“Cops?” He narrows his eyes. Yolanda’s hands clench ever-so-slightly on the edge of her hips.

“A few times. To the face,” she admits, lifting her eyes to meet his gaze evenly. “Only when they were being particularly shitty.” 

“You don’t make them anymore, right?” he asks plaintively. If she were part of the 'Trans-City-Riots' that took place when he was a child as he suspects, he doesn’t fucking blame her for dabbling in explosives. He can still remember the police force back then and how cruel they were. Yolanda’s eyes become lively once again and she shakes her head, curls sashaying. 

“No, not anymore,” she promises, giving him a gentle push to the stage entrance. “Now you need to hurry, you’re gonna miss your stage mark.” 

Jason doesn’t argue with her, meeting the stage hand at the entrance to the narrow staircase leading up to the stages. The young man seems irritated at his tardiness, pushing him into position against the pole, before he checks the lighting and strobes on the stage floor. The heavy curtain between them and the audience begins to lift, and the hand almost doesn’t make it offstage in time before the opening rumble of Jason’s song begins to play through the sound system.

He leans back against the pole, head hung low, as though the weight of the world is on his shoulders, and not a six foot length of industrial fire hose. Distantly, he can hear a few of his regulars whistling low throughout the audience, some whooping encouragements. The routine is already running through his head like any other workout, though keeping it steady to a song’s beat is a little more difficult. _ It’s Raining Men _is not exactly the easiest song to dance to, but it’s a fitting choice for his costume, he supposes.

Overhead, Charla's voice purrs through the sound system. _ “Who’s been craving some hot lovin’ tonight?” _ The bartender hums deliciously as the cheers settle, “because have we got the goods for you! You little scamps have been waiting all night for him, and he’s here to hose you down! Give it up for _ Jack Rodd__!_” 

He nearly rocks back at the cheers that throttle through the theater for him, a little stunned. It’s always surprising to him how many people turn out for his stage appearances, and while flattering, it drives home to him that he really needs to start using actual disguises for his undercover work. It wouldn’t do to have anyone recognize him, especially not from here. Helmet hair aside, he’s quite glad he doesn’t show any part of his face at his night job either, because he actually recognizes some of the audience members near the front row that he’s helped out a time or two. 

The lights snap onto him as his cue, and he reaches up, grabbing the pole behind his head before he launches up to flip himself upside down, both legs opening out wide. He hold the Pencil V pose for a few beats, letting his muscles warm up before he dismounts to face the audience. Teasingly, he rolls his neck back, unlatching the hard fireman’s hat from beneath the jut of his chin, letting it clatter to the floor where it rolls back away from the pole. The music swells around him, rich womanly tones singing praises about manly physiques. 

He unravels the hose from his neck, striding forward to fling it back against the pole, where it winds itself around it twice from the force of his throw. The clang of the nozzle against the metal makes a satisfying clash, as he all but rips open the heavy coat on his torso. Playfully, he spins out of the coat, snapping the bright garment as though it were a matador’s cape. He winks at a group of regulars, before tossing the costume out onto their table to their vocal amusement. He knows they’ll get the coat back to Yolanda before the end of the night.

Outwardly he makes it look effortless, but inwardly he’s already sweating about slipping up on the bills steadily rising in mounds along the edge of the stage, their green backs fluttering as his body cuts the air with each dance move. 

He moves easily enough through the floor routine, saucily winking at the people he recognizes, before dropping to his knees in front of a table of younger, nervous-looking college boys. Probably their first time in a joint like this, from the looks of it. He teases them by hooking his thumbs under the suspenders and running them up and down the length of the straps. Some of the bolder ones lean forward and tuck tens and twenties beneath the straps, beginning to loosen up a little more under his attention. 

He leaves the suspenders on however, snapping open the button to the fly of his heavy trousers instead. Tearing them off is an option, but he prefers not to. Undressing is much more enticing, and while he doesn’t need the money, he knows that there are plenty of charities he donates to that do and this table is filled with loaded little rich boys eager to give up the dough. He licks his lips when one dark-headed guy slides a hundred between the space of his spread knees, giving the customer a filthy groan and jutting his hips pornographically at the man’s face as a reward. 

Appreciative whistles soar up from the crowd as he gets to his feet again, hips swaying as he shimmies back a little and gets into position at center stage. Jason thumbs his suspenders again, slowly sliding them off his shoulders. He chose to be a little less subtle tonight, changing out the plain steel for fire engine red to cap the ends of his piercings. The audience screams at the reveal, and he can feel his cheeks heat a little at some of the things people are hollering. Things about _ biting _ and _ sucking _ and he swears he hears someone call him _ Daddy. _ He plays it up, tossing his hair back from his eyes with a dark little grin that he reserves for when he’s kneecapping pimps. 

It’s the first time he’s actually shown the new goods off at work, and if the cash getting thrown on the stage is any indication, they are much appreciated. He thinks back to how much it had hurt, and decides it’s worth the pain. Stage hands alongside the catwalk that juts out from the main stage are already collecting the dollar bills that are beginning to pile up, all under Charla’s watchful eye at the bar. There are going to be some really happy kids tonight at the church orphanage, Jason decides, a genuine smile pulling at his cheeks now. 

Jason fights down his blush when one patron points at him with a wink and then mimes sucking his dick, tongue suggestively poking out his pale cheek. The man is attractive, and probably in his mid twenties, dark hair and blue eyes catching hold of Jason’s old history of crushes by the cojones. Doesn’t help that Jason has a type, and this guy is checking a lot of the boxes. Looking away, he focuses on running his hands up over his own throat to bury in his hair, leaving dark, tainted trails with his fingertips. 

He gyrates his hips, the pants sagging downwards in a slow, torturous descent over his thighs. They get stuck there, his thick muscle too broad to allow them to fall down on their own, so he swivels his back to the audience and bends over, shoving them down to his ankles. The motion is an easy and simple move, but with his goods on display it’s a definite crowdpleaser. He shakes his tail feather a little, snickering at the responding groans underlying the catcalls. 

“Take it _ off, _ Daddy!” 

Shouts ring up, clamouring for his attention as Jason steps out of the pants and his oversized boots. On the pretense of tugging his g-string back into place he yanks it down over the swell of his ass, looking back with a wink as he nudges the pile of clothes off to the side with one foot. A stagehand hurriedly snatches them offstage, ducking back down before they are spotted. 

Jason snaps the underwear back into place, much to the audience’s chagrin, then turns back around and folds his arms over his chest before cocking a hip against the pole. With a devilish grin he snags hold of the hose once more, unwinding it from the pole before he wraps it around his waist and secures it like a belt. It hangs just above the bright red g-string that’s barely covering his dignity, his hands deftly making sure the nozzle is safely out of the way in preparation for his next part of the routine. Wouldn’t do to knock himself in the nuts; he takes enough beatings as it is on patrol. 

Jason struts down the length of the catwalk that stretches out into the audience, hose swinging heavy between his legs as he rolls his hips. At his mark, he propels himself into a series of brutal somersaults towards the crowd, to their ecstatic awe and delight. He picks up speed before he uses the last spring to leap onto the pole at the end of the stage, swinging round it twice with one hand gripping the steel bar. His legs swing out over the stage and into the audience’s space, startling them into a collective gasp as he nearly clips a stage hand walking near the front of the stage. It earns him a glare and a soft curse but he’ll apologize later, as he can’t stop the show now. 

As he swivels to wrap one knee around the bar, he slows the spin down, his other foot planting against the bar below his knee for counterpoint. Letting his hand grip go, he practically floats around the bar in a graceful Advanced Star spin, one arm extending forward gracefully while the other swans out in preparation for the dismount.

He lets his knee loosen its hold on the bar, gravity pulling him down before he catches the bar with both fists, the audience enraptured as he swivels his lower body upwards, holding himself completely upside down and parallel to the bar. Cheekily he grins out at the audience before snapping out his legs wide and thrusts his hips suggestively twice, swinging his body back down to an upright position. He practically sits against the pole, his legs wrapped indian-style around it in a seated Fireman pose for balance as he twirls around it once again. 

His hands leave the pole as he leans backwards, his upper body dangling from the perch precariously. He stretches luxuriously, the length of hose draped directly down the middle of his broad chest like a seductive snake, the nozzle bumping his chin in a filthy mock kiss. He shifts his weight, keeping the momentum of his body’s spin from slowing down as he wraps a hand around the cool weight of the hose’s end, bringing it up to lick the end in a suggestive pink flicker. Some raunchy suggestions float up over the din of the room and the music, money littering the stage like trash. He really does think the orphanage could use a new ward, so he flings caution to the wind as he opens his mouth wide.

People collectively _ lose their fucking minds _ as he deep throats the hose nozzle, mindful of the little button Yolanda installed, doing his best to not gag at the metallic taste on his tongue. The blood is rushing to his head now, drowning out the sound of the crowd a little. He hollows his cheeks, wincing at the high pitched screeching it elicits. He absently considers how dirty the prop might be, but he figures he’s had nastier things in his mouth before. 

When he opens his eyes to ground himself, he spots Teddy amongst the masses, the kid standing at the foot of the stage with a half-full tray of drinks. The kid is staring straight at him, mouth agape and cheeks flushed. The tray lolls a bit in his grip, his attention completely consumed by the sight of Jason. Something in Jason’s chest coils tight, burning a line straight down to his stomach. 

He clamps down on the thought that he’d like to be sucking something else right now, before that warmth can creep any lower than his abdominals and cause him any embarrassing issues.

Gasping obscenely, he rips the nozzle from his swollen lips. A glistening strand of saliva trails after the hose, before snapping. He gives the people the money shot they came for with a quick press of the button, and closes his eyes. Glitter erupts from the end of the hose onto his face and hair, small pieces of blue and white confetti sputtering out at the end of the burst. He can feel the glitter catch on his damp lips, gritty and rough.

Screams roar up in aroused adoration while Jason unties the hose to fling it towards the back of the stage so he can finish his routine. He twists through a series of gymnastic endeavors that would make Dick Grayson proud, wrapping the routine up as the song comes to its closing notes. The finale is the last thing he has left, and he swiftly climbs up to the top of the pole, making sure to rub himself suggestively every so often to rile up the crowd. 

When he reaches the ceiling, he turns himself, twisting to grasp the pole between his thighs while he faces the ground. He loosens his thigh hold just enough, arms stretched out wide as he closes his eyes, plummeting back to the floor like a falling star. He starts his count, ignoring the alarm ringing through the crowd, some of the exclamations even coming from stunned servers. He finally reaches zero, timing it to where he’s a mere three feet away from the floor before he grips the pole tightly between his thighs again, halting his descent abruptly as the song ends. There will be a bit of a bruise, possibly a friction burn between his legs, and even with the ample warm up his core is going to kill him tomorrow, but the pay out is worth it as people throw money up like rain. 

He nearly slips on a pile of twenty dollar bills when he plants his hands on the stage timber and dismounts into a handstand. When he flips back to his feet again and leans against the pole in the pose he started with, his smile almost shatters like a pane glass window. His stomach hits the floor harder than he would have if he’d failed his previous death-defying drop down the pole. 

Out amongst the patrons, a blonde woman is sitting in a booth near the back, wearing one of the ugliest purple plaid and checked dress suits Jason’s ever had the displeasure of seeing. She’s also wearing a false mustache that’s she is twirling evilly with her index finger, a match dangling from her smirking, pink lips. Jason nearly throws up on stage, going pale and beginning to shake as he beats a retreat backstage, all but stumbling over a stage hand in his rush. 

“What are you doing?” the hand snaps incredulously. “You’ve gotta go out on the floor, you killed it out there. You can’t miss the window for more tips.” They block him from escaping back to wardrobe, and he finds himself edged backwards to the side exit where performers leave to enter the show floor and mingle with customers. 

“I-” He doesn’t get a word in edgewise, the door slamming shut on his nose without mercy. Charla, unaware of his plight calls to him as he approaches the bar, weaving through the ranks of servers bustling through.

“Jackie, that was splendid!” she gushes, holding out a shot of whiskey for him. “Now get out there and make you some money, honey.” 

He almost spills the shot, his hand trembling. Jason can’t think about anything except the fact that Batman is probably outside this club_ right now_, waiting for him, and he is heading into a beatdown wearing nothing but a g-string. 

“Hey, table four requested you, and they seem flush with cash - why don’t you go there first?” she suggests, pointing out into the crowd when he can’t tear himself off the spot. Jason feels his blood turning to ice now, staring at Stephanie Brown as she laughs freely. _ At him. _ He rests his fist on the bar, and clenches the shotglass tight within his grasp. 

Charla turns at the sound of a loud crack, and makes a noise of dismay at the sight of the splintered shot glass leaking whiskey onto the counter as Jason squares his shoulders and goes to meet his fate. 

* * *

Jason has the nausea down to a minimum as he draws close to Stephanie’s table, doing his best to paste the easy-going, slutty persona of Jack on just enough to fool any onlookers. He looms over her booth, doing his best to intimidate despite the fact he’s wearing nothing but a g-string and red barbells in his nipples. He sincerely hopes against hopes that she’s not streaming this fiasco directly back to Oracle, or_ \- fuck him _ \- the Batcave.

Stephanie is taking a sip of her cocktail when he reaches her and she sprays her mouthful all over herself as she cackles. He knows he looks a mess, smudged up with charcoal and glitter sticking to his face and hair like dander. 

“Oh my fucking God, Ja-”

He silences her by slamming his foot against the booth next to her head. He leans in closer, under the pretense of gyrating for her pleasure.

“The name’s Jack, I heard you requested me,” he says smoothly, cutting her off before she blows his cover. Stephanie blinks up at him, her mouth open in stunned surprise before it twists up into a barely restrained grin. 

“Oh yeah, I did request you, _ Jack Rodd_.” She waggles her eyebrows at his ridiculous stage name. He narrows his eyes, dropping his foot back down to the floor. She stops laughing the minute he rests his knees on either side of her lap, all amusement flying out of her as he settles his weight onto her in an effective pin. She squeaks when he draws his mouth near to the side of her cheek, so close that some glitter dusts over her temple.

“You can tell B to fuck the hell right off,” he hisses into her ear sharply. “I’m not going to stop working the case.” 

Stephanie very carefully tilts her head at him, her blue eyes lighting up with realization.

“Jack, I’m not here for B,” she assures him. “This is _ my _ territory, I just came to see what you were doing.” 

He wavers at that admission, pulling back from her to study her for any tells. She’s not lying from the looks of it, but he remains guarded. Nothing good ever comes from working with the bats, even an outlier like Batgirl. 

“I promise I won’t tell anyone.” She holds up her hands in a show of surrender. “I just wanted you to know you can stay, just let me know what’s up next time, okay? If something’s wrong, I want to know so I can help.” 

He crinkles his nose. 

“If you need my help, I mean,” she corrects quickly, clearly an old pro at knowing when someone is bristling up at a misunderstood implication. “I mean, _ obviously _ I can’t do anything here because I don’t have the parts and all, but if you need backup don’t be afraid to call me.”

“Why do you even care?” he asks her in a hushed tone as he spots what looks like a server making their way through the crowds of people towards their table. He misses the way Stephanie’s face softens in pity. 

“I told you, this is my territory. I care about the people who are in it you know.” She pats his chest gently. Her nails knocks against one of his piercings. “That means you too.”

Jason fumbles his response, words choking up on his tongue when the server sets down another drink on top of Stephanie’s table. The entire thing is covered in a graveyard of empty and half drunk glasses, all of them the most expensive drinks on the menu. Teddy looks up from where he’s placed a cocktail that’s obnoxiously purple on the table at Stephanie’s elbow. He seems startled to see Jason there, making Jason fidget as he recalls just how fucking naked he is, sitting in Stephanie’s clothed lap. 

“You know, I have to hit the ladies room,” Stephanie says loudly as he stands back up, freeing her. “Would you mind cleaning up my empties, Teddy Bare?” she asks the server sweetly, gesturing to her table of glasses before she makes her way to the bathroom. Jason fights back the urge to sigh, relieved that his dignity is saved for another night. 

The server is blushing like a shy rosebud and won’t make eye contact as he begins to clean up the table, his hands fluttering with deft ease to stack the glasses onto his tray. Jason watches him work, mind floating away to the memory of Teddy gazing up at him with bright eyes and his calloused, pale hand trembling on Jason’s stomach. With a start he realizes he’s daydreaming, and his neck is overwarm with a blush threatening to creep up into his face.

It’s so damn obvious to him now. The once-bitten-twice-shy Teddy draws his gaze in a way that he hasn’t allowed it to wander in a long time. Last he can remember feeling this way was about Rena and while they both had similarities physically, the personalities were complete opposites. Rena had never shied away from him, sure in her emotions where Teddy seemed reserved and vulnerable. 

_ Fuck me__, _ _ of course I get a crush on someone I damn well shouldn’t_, he thinks tiredly. He forces himself to swallow down his embarrassment and act casual. Finding the boy cute was one thing, but he draws the line at acting upon the budding attraction. The boy had enough problems, if the scars carved onto his svelte body were any indication.

“Uh, you need some help?” He realizes that Stephanie has left quite a mess for the kid, and suddenly feels bad about him having to work double time for her. 

“I-I got it.” Teddy doesn’t sound very sure. His tray is already full and the table’s not even half cleared. The smaller man finally looks up at Jason when he throws protocol to the wind and snags up the tray with one hand. 

“I’ll get this one, mkay?” He tries to go for a easy going smile, but he’s sure it’s just fucking smitten. He hefts the tray up to balance it over his shoulder, making his way to the bar before Teddy can protest. He spies Stephanie yucking it up with Charla and scowls as he sets down the tray and starts unloading. She jolts when she spots him, looking guilty as she slides off her barstool. 

“Stop ordering shit, you didn’t even drink half of these,” he snarls, dropping a martini glass onto the counter. Stephanie jumps at the loud clatter, eyes wide. “Fff… sorry.” He takes a breath, running a hand through his hair to calm down. It’s not really her he’s mad at; it’s himself, and he’s acting like an asshole. 

“You two know each other?” Charla’s brows raise curiously as she sides what’s left on the tray down behind the counter for one of the barhands to start washing up.

“Yes.” 

“No.” 

They both give each other a look, which makes Charla burst out laughing. 

“Well, don’t tell her to stop spending money, honey. She’s gonna break the record for bar sales,” the queen scolds Jason, wagging her finger. “Ain’t you supposed to be working? What are you playing busboy for?” 

Jason colors, hunching his shoulders when Stephanie smiles sneakily. 

“Oh, he’s just helping out my waiter.” She winks at Charla conspiratively, and Jason swears the queen winks back. “Nice talking to you Charla Mange. I probably should get going, but I promise I’ll be back soon,” she giggles, waving as she hooks an arm around Jason’s and tugs him back towards her booth. 

Stephanie waits until they’re out of earshot to descend on him. 

“You sly dog, you didn’t tell me you were interested in someone.” She reaches up to ruffle his hair, picking the bits of confetti out of his bangs. 

“What? No!” he hushes her, pulling her aside with a stern look. “Steph, he’s just a coworker. Don’t even think about dragging that kid into my shit, okay?”

“Your shit?” she repeats dumbly. He can’t tell if its genuine obliviousness or intentional dumbassery. It’s a fine line with Stephanie sometimes. 

“He’s a civilian,” he grinds out, “and I’m not boyfriend material, capiche?” He shakes her off, grumbling, “So don’t say a fucking word.” 

The look she gives him is unreadable, but her sigh is one hundred percent exasperated.

“You men,” she says crossly, shaking her head. “Fine. I’ll keep mum, but I swear to you someday soon you’re gonna look back and wish I’d helped you.”

“Yeah, sure, when hell freezes maybe,” he snorts, flapping his hand at her to go away. He glances up when Teddy sidles up to them, carrying another tray of empty glasses. The bill is tucked neatly under a glass and Jason’s eyes nearly fall out at the total. He gives Stephanie a look, as if to say that she _ will _ be paying the tab in full or so help him-

“Thanks, dollface,” she quips, not even reading the bill that’s as long as her arm before she takes a suspiciously familiar black credit card off the tray. Jason cannot fucking believe what he is seeing; Bruce Wayne’s limitless credit card on an open fucking tab in a club that he is currently dancing next-to-naked in nightly. His blood pressure skyrockets and Stephanie must realize he is about to melt down because she winks at him. 

“I told Charla to tip the serving staff triple rate.” 

Jason blinks, the red haze at the edge of his vision receding. She wouldn’t be here using that card if she didn’t have a backup at least, he tells himself, thinking about the crappy pay most of the servers get on a nightly basis. Hopefully he can wrap this case up before Bruce gets wind of anything and he’ll be long gone. 

Teddy is watching them, an odd guilt flashing across his features when he realizes Jason’s caught him staring, and averts his gaze demurely. The motion draws Jason’s gaze down the lengthy column of his pale neck and over his rounded shoulder. He’s wearing a red-and-white nurse teddy tonight, two red crosses painted over his chest. It bares his skin to the glow of the lights, paling it in contrast, and making some of his more prominent scars stand out. Jason hadn’t seen it by the dimly lit booth, but here by the bar the lighting is better and Jason zeros in on a detail he had missed. 

Bruises litter the inside of Teddy’s bicep, where brutal fingers have left their prints on his innocent flesh. Then and there, Jason swears he will personally lop off each and every single one off the hands of the bastard that’s knocking Teddy around. He’s so deep in thought about the numerous ways he can dismantle a person’s thumbs that he misses Steph pocketing her credit card and flashing Charla a smile as she departs. Leaving Jason alone to glower down at the evidence blossoming in black and blue on the kid’s skin. 

It’s only when Yolanda calls him to the front stages again for his second show of the night that he comes back to himself. It happens less often these days, but sometimes he feels like the pit is still in him, tunneling his vision and channeling his anger in insidious ways he cannot control. He heads to the back to freshen up, but the plan is already formed, ready for him to put into motion. 

He’s not going to let anyone else get hurt in this place, especially not Teddy. His feelings don’t matter, because above all else the kid deserves to be safe and free from the horrible abuse he’s facing. No need to complicate things he decides, grimly putting aside the fuzzy feeling his heart gets when he sees the kid watching him dance again.

Teddy deserves better and Jason can’t offer him that. 

* * *

The end of the night comes quickly after that, Jason running through the routine on the pole another four times, switching it up a little each time for the regulars who stick around the entire night. By three am he’s dressed back in his jeans and red hoodie, his favorite brown leather jacket pulled over it. His face and hands are finally cleaned off of enough of the stage makeup that he can walk the street without looking like a house fire victim. 

Tommy isn’t in the dressing room when he goes to sit down at his station and pull on his tactical boots. But he’s been otherwise occupied the whole night, and he wants to check in with the other dancer. He usually walks Tommy to the nearest bus stop to see him off before doubling back for his motorcycle, but tonight he has other plans, and doesn’t want to leave the man hanging. 

“Hey Nebraska, where you at?” he calls, with no response. A stage hand pulling a rack of costumes towards the exit to take to the dry cleaners pauses to give him a funny look. 

“Why do you call him Nebraska?” the man asks with a note of derision, craning his neck to inspect a tear in one of the garments.

“Oh, you know. Because he’s from Florida,” Jason quips sarcastically with a roll of his eyes as he finishes lacing the last boot. “Inside joke.” 

“Huh.” The stage hand crinkles his nose and plucks the ruined garment off the rack to toss it into the nearby trash can. “Well, stop hollering, because I’m pretty sure he already left for the night. Something about something he ate again.” He sounds disgusted. “He was woozy as all hell. Asshole should stop drinking on the job, he’s just making everyone else have to work harder.” 

Jason’s brows lower, and he can’t help the low growl that rumbles up his throat. 

“Excuse me?” He gets up, looming over the little twerp, enjoying the way he jumps nearly out of his skin at how fast Jason got to him while he was unawares. “You got anything else you’d like to say about someone who’s not here to defend themselves?” He leans into the man’s face, relishing the way the blood rushes from his pimply face. 

“Uh…” He backs away a step and Jason follows. 

“If I were you, I’d just mind my own damn business,” Jason tells him sagely, patting his clammy cheek roughly to make the man’s head jolt to the side with each lovetap. “Why don’t you get back to work?” 

He feels a little better when the jerk all but runs out of the dressing room, dragging the rack haphazardly behind himself in his rush. The edge of his anger has been taken down a notch now, and he’s confident in his role as Jack Dickinson again when he rolls up to the showfloor where the servers are busy cleaning up the floor. 

The dancers usually leave early, so Jason’s presence causes a few to pause, mostly to gape at him as he heads over to the bar where Teddy is counting down his drawer. He only manages to sound partly smooth when he leans on the counter next to him and clears his throat. 

Teddy pauses, those baby doll lashes fluttering in surprise to see him again, and it makes Jason’s brain slow down to a molasses drip, while his tongue decides it would be a great time to run like popsicle in the summer sun. 

“You want me to walk you home?” 

He kicks himself the second the question leaves his stupid mouth. He’d thought he’d be clever and ask the kid for coffee shop recommendations so he could triangulate Teddy’s stomping grounds, maybe even find his abuser and nail the asshole to a dumpster somewhere. He’d checked Teddy’s file on his last break, while McClain was in the john and found it was a dead end; the kid had given a fake address to some condemned dump in the Narrows. Jason knew it well because he had a safehouse in it. Not that it was unusual - half the staff here had given management old or false home addresses. It was a little extra leg work on his part, but if it kept them safe it was worth the trouble. 

So instead of playing his cards close to his chest, Jason’s brain decides to toss all rationality to the wind, and he comes out with a fucking pick up line that he knows for a fact isn’t gonna work in a million years. 

“S-Sure,” Teddy stammers, after a moment of stunned silence. Like he can’t believe Jason is talking to him. 

Jason can’t help himself. A sincere smile rips across his mouth without his permission and it takes all his willpower to not do a fucking backflip right there and then. He feels like he’s going to burst from the sudden explosion of gleeful butterflies dancing in his stomach. He feels like he’s in high school again, in love for the very first time. 

He bites down on his tongue to stop himself from adding anything else to that train of thought, such as inviting him back to his place. Like Roy isn’t crashed on his couch right now and would definitely ask questions about a banged up kid in lingerie. Also, he reminds himself quickly, the kid just said yes to him escorting him home, nothing more nothing less. And the last thing Jason wants to do is spook him. He’ll never even lay eyes on the kid’s abuser if he comes on too strong now. 

“Uh great, that’s great,” he flounders, shuffling away from the bar. “I’ll meet you at the back door?” 

When Teddy dips his head in agreement, Jason mentally smacks himself to stop grinning like a dumbass and heads out for a quick smoke to calm his nerves. He gets through two whole cancer sticks before Teddy exits the back door looking tense as a newborn lamb. 

Jason had parked his motorcycle in the usual storage unit before work, but he’d entertained bringing it around for their excursion. The notion of living out his stupid, innocent schoolboy fantasy of giving somebody he liked a ride was tempting, but he’s quite glad he didn’t retrieve it now. 

Teddy’s legs are covered only in his sheer stockings, peeping out from beneath the dusty trenchcoat he’s got wrapped around his slender frame. Jason can see a glimpse of the white collar to his nurse’s outfit and his brain shuts down at the reminder of how bare he must be under that single article of clothing. One stiff wind and the kid’s goods are gonna be on display, and the idea of that skin pressed up against his back on his bike makes him dizzy.

_ Perhaps an evening stroll, sir? The cool air might do you some good, _a voice that sounds remarkably like Alfred suggests in the back of his lizard brain and Jason elects - as usual - not to argue with it. 

* * *

Tim’s pulse ratchets higher the more ground they cover. 

He’s barely even noticed the lingering stares, the ones that trail up his stockinged legs where they’re bared by the frayed edge of the knee-length trenchcoat. He hadn’t wanted to change into his civilian clothes after the end of their shift, hadn’t wanted to add another piece of himself to the Tim Drake puzzle for Jason to work out. Had opted for tugging a trenchcoat straight over his teddy nurse lingerie and prayed he’d be able to skamper to Steph’s before the cold set into his bones. 

He should have said no. He should have refused Jason, should have insisted he was fine and he didn’t need a chaperone to walk him home to a place he didn’t plan on needing to ever show a hyperprotective vigilante. It was just that Jason was being so _ nice_, so thoughtful and caring. Towards _ Tim._

Towards Teddy, he corrects himself. Because Jason doesn’t suspect it’s Tim, doesn’t know it’s Tim. And if he did, Tim’s fairly certain he’d be bleeding out from a knife wound in a gutter right now. Wouldn’t be the first time Jason’s left him for dead. 

But Jason is downright doting on Teddy in comparison. And sue him, but Tim wants to experience this side of him a little more. Call it selfish, but the only interactions Tim’s had up to this point with his childhood hero have been scathing remarks and brawls on rooftops. It’s not his fault if this softer, sympathetic side of Jason has piqued his curiosity. 

Tim likes it. It reminds him of the Jason in the Robin duds, the one who would slip down from fire escapes to check in on the working girls, or pull Bruce off a stakeout to walk a lost kid home. 

Honestly, Tim doesn’t know why he didn’t expect Jason to make a fuss over an arbitrary bruise. A bruise he’d picked up sparring Damian, to keep himself sharp while he’s off patrol and dedicating his waking hours to cracking this case. He knows how perceptive Jason can be, how well he learnt to read people under Dick’s tutelage (in a way that Tim never quite got the same hang of) - and that was after he’d grown up needing to read people on the streets for survival. Jason’s shrewd like Tim’s shrewd; he just uses his perceptiveness on people rather than reports and numbers. 

It’s not the first time Tim’s envied Jason’s skillset. He’d been far more suited to Robinhood than Tim had ever felt. His had been big boots to fill when Tim had shouldered himself into the role. It’s not the first time Tim’s felt scrutinising eyes dragging over every inch of him, comparing, assessing. 

He hunches his shoulders up, shrinking in the shade of Jason’s bulk as they trot down the sidewalk. Jason’s ambling, his hands in his pockets and his gait easy, but Tim can tell he’s got one eye on the men who turn their heads at Tim’s scurrying, his green-blue eyes sharpening with every hooked gaze. 

Jason’s following his lead, accommodating of Tim’s hasty apologies whenever they turn a wrong corner and he sets them back on their nonexistent course. He doesn’t know why Jason hasn’t just gotten fed up with him already. Cut his losses with a wave and a smile and said he’d see Teddy at work tomorrow. 

He’s inexorably persistent, and with every step, Tim’s brain draws a neat line through his available contingency plans. 

They turn another block, the frequency of unbarred doors picking up as they stumble through increasingly more civil neighbourhoods. Tim realises with a sinking slice of panic that he’s unintentionally started heading for home. His old home, his _ parents' _ home, the brownstone they’d kept up on the Upper East side as a convenient stopover when Drake Estate had been otherwise unsuitable. The sort of brownstone that a minimum wage server at a sleazy downtown strip club has no business living in. 

Tim slows to an incremental pace, casting his gaze around at the lit windows, searching for any that look vacant. Any that he can claim as his own, at least until Jason turns the corner. It wouldn’t be Tim’s first attempt at breaking and entering, but his stomach knots like it’s his first time. Unfortunately, none of the apartments in this row look unoccupied, and Tim doesn’t miss when Jason’s brow tugs into a contemplative frown as Tim draws to a stuttering halt. 

This isn’t how he wanted Jason to find out who he is. Not freezing to death in a threadbare trenchcoat and lingerie after leading him on a wild goose chase halfway across the city. Tim can feel his cheeks burning, bright beneath even his blush as he swallows and frets on the pavement, trying to find words delicate enough to soften the blow. 

“Everything okay?” Jason asks softly, and Tim flinches. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, and it comes out in a mortified whisper. It’s awash with shame, and Tim feels the guilt swell in his chest as he turns to face him, clenching the trenchcoat up tighter around his throat as his brow pinches. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to lead you on.” 

Jason’s frown deepens, like he doesn’t understand, and Tim feels like he’s going to retch. 

“I don’t live in this neighbourhood,” he blurts, the words pouring from him, unstoppable in their flood. “None of these are my houses. I don’t live here. I didn’t mean to lead you on, or- or make you think that I was jerking you around or anything like that. I just, now I’ve led you halfway across the city, and I don’t even live here. I don’t even have a _ house _ in-” 

Jason takes a hasty step forward, hands outstretched, and Tim braces for a blow. Firm palms wrap around his shoulders, squeezing as Jason ducks down, trying to catch his gaze. Tim’s too terrified to meet it, too terrified he’ll recognise him this close and God, he could _ snap _ Tim in half with those fists- 

“It’s okay,” Jason murmurs earnestly, tone dripping with pained compassion. Tim freezes. “It’s okay, you don’t have to be ashamed or afraid, I just- I’m not angry. I’m not mad, I promise. Actually, I’m really glad you told me.” 

Tim meet his gaze, meets the warmth in his eyes and the kind smile he’s doing his darndest to project onto Tim. “You are?” he whispers. 

“Yeah, I am,” Jason says. “And don’t worry - I get it. I know what it’s like to be without house or home.” 

Tim blinks at him, his stomach dropping through the pavement below his heels. “You-” 

Jason gives a stilted little laugh, rolling his shoulders like he’s trying to shake off some of the suggestions that come with that admission. “I know what it’s like, I know how rough it can be living on the streets. I know the sort of thing you have to do to keep yourself alive. I know you probably feel ashamed, but you don’t have to, okay? You don’t have to be ashamed around me, yeah? I’ve got your back.” 

Tim gives a shaky exhale, and then an even shakier inhale. Jason’s hands squeeze his shoulders, hot and burning. He’s still holding Tim’s gaze, seems to be waiting for agreement, so Tim nods dazedly. 

Jason gives him that smile, his Robin smile, and snatches Tim’s breath away again. “Good, I’m glad. You know you can come to me with anything, right? I’ll help you out, however I can. No matter how hopeless it seems. And hey, it gets better,” he promises, shaking Tim lightly. He rocks on his heels until Jason sets him straight again. “I promise, it’ll get better soon. You’ve got a steady income, and Yolanda always takes care of her own. You’re in safe hands. Good hands.” 

Tim glances down at where Jason’s palms are fused to him, and Jason pulls them away after a last reassuring knead. Then he takes a step back, and Tim focuses on making sure he’s breathing. 

“Deep breaths, it’s gonna be okay,” Jason murmurs soothingly. “In the meantime, do you need somewhere to stay? I have an- My apartment’s not far from here, if you want to crash there.” 

Tim’s throat swells shut with guilt, tears brimming in his gaze. He shakes his head sharply. 

“I don’t mind,” Jason rushes to interject. “Honestly, I don’t. You can stay the night, or a few nights, or however long you need-” 

“No, no,” Tim chokes out, take a few skittish steps back. Feels guilt settle like a blow to his gut when Jason’s brow pinches in concern and self-admonishment. Kicks himself for not remembering the scars and the bruises, and the _ implications _ that explain why Teddy’s so uncomfortable with bigger, stronger men in his life. 

Jason lifts his hands in an easy surrender, matching Tim’s steps backwards to give him a bit more distance. “Okay, okay, that’s fine. You don’t have to. I’m not going to make you. I get why you don’t want to, I’m not offended, I promise. I didn’t mean to spook you, okay? Sorry.” 

Tim shakes his head again, swallowing the acid in his tight throat. “No, no, it’s not your fault. I didn’t mean-” 

“Hey, it’s fine,” Jason says with soft exactitude, closing the matter. He sticks his hand into his pocket, pats himself down for something before delving into his jacket “But, hey, if you won’t let me give you a place to stay, then I want to give you something else.” 

Tim’s knees nearly buckle when Jason produces a wad of cash from the inner lining of his jacket. The rational, numerical part of his brain quickly summises the bundle and ratchets his estimate up into the thousands as Jason offers it to him. The stupid, no-good emotional part of his brain is a juddering train wreck. 

Tim blinks at the wad dumbly, until Jason shakes it. Tim’s gaze lifts to his, stunned. 

“It’s yours,” Jason says, shuffling it into his fingertips to offer it more readily. Tim doesn’t take it. “Teddy, look, I don’t need it. It’s my pull from last Sunday. It’s my biggest night; I can make this any Sunday I please. You’re not robbing me. I’m giving it to you. Just take it.” 

Tim stares down at the innocuous wad, jaw slack as Jason waits patiently, waving the cash gently to coax him into taking it. 

And Jason’s offering it to him. _ Jason_, who’s just admitted that he spent time on the streets, spent enough time to recognise it in someone else, to _ empathise _ with that fear and gut-deep panic. Jason, who’s standing there with a stack of bills outstretched to Tim, whose inheritance would probably use petty cash like that as a serviette. Tim’s never felt like more of a fraud. 

“I don’t want-” Tim begins. 

Jason’s tone is flat. “I’m not giving you the option, Teddy. Take it. Buy yourself a hotel room for the night, get yourself off the streets. Shit, buy a room for the week if you want. Get yourself a decent meal too,” he adds, dragging his gaze down Tim’s narrow hips and slim figure, as if he’s cataloging every poor dietary choice Tim’s made in the last month. “Use it to get yourself on your feet.” 

Tim hesitates, roiling with guilt, and shakes his head insistently. “No. I can’t take that from you.” 

“_Teddy,_” Jason says, an edge of exasperation entering his tone as he waves the wad again, thrusting it towards Tim’s chest. “I don’t need it - I really, honestly don’t. So either you’re taking it or it’s going down the gutter and the rats can have it. But I’d rather it was you.” 

Tim outstretches a shaking hand and takes the cash tentatively. 

“Use it,” Jason insists, and then nods at Tim’s bicep, where the bruise is hidden beneath the sleeve of his trenchcoat. “Get yourself a clean break from whoever’s doing shit like _ that _ to you. And if you ever need to get away from that, or _ them, _ then my door’s always open. Okay? Just say the word.” 

Tim swallows hard, feeling like that knife is in his throat again, sapping the ethicism and decency from him. “Sure,” he croaks, and squeezes the cash. Jason gives him a relieved smile that slides another knife directly between his ribs. “Thanks.” 

* * *

Tim goes to the Cave, because he can’t sleep with the restless energy buzzing in his veins, and he doesn’t want to face Steph with the wad of cash burning a hole in his pocket. 

He’s not going to keep it. Timothy Drake-Wayne, youngest CEO and millionaire, doesn’t need two grand in cash, and Tim doesn’t feel like he deserves it regardless. It’s going to go somewhere Jason would want it to go, where someone who deserves his generosity can actually appreciate the gesture. 

It takes three cups of coffee before Tim manages to soothe the roiling pit of guilt in his stomach and set the wad up on the desk without feeling like he needs to leave the room. His head’s clearer, more alert, but he’s still restless, so he pulls open his file notes and reviews the case he’s working. 

He adds in his thoughts on Dominik's brother and his gang affiliation, but it's not sitting right in his gut. Tim's instinct is rarely so easily dismissed, and he believes Twinka's deduction in that Francis probably didn't kill Dominik. Notwithstanding Twinka's other comments, Tim doesn't think a hotheaded relative would be so clinical about divesting a man of his most critical organs. 

It reeks of organisation, planning and effort. Despite the cops' chalking it up to a stock standard mob hit - and Tim can appreciate that the river is a favourite dumping ground for the various clans that squat in Gotham - Tim can't shake the niggling reminder of how efficient the murders had been. 

Both victims were missing less than 48 hours before they showed up in the harbour, and while the water had spoiled any chance of identifying fingerprints or evidence of their attackers, Leslie had been able to triangulate the creation of the stitched lacerations to within a fifteen hour period. Both Zack Todahl and Dominik Nowak had been cut open close to within two hours of their disappearances, but they hadn't been _ sewn up _ for another thirty hours after that. Somewhere in the time between, both had been relieved of their kidneys, livers, hearts, pancreases, and marrow. 

The fact that their vivisections had occurred so swiftly after the last time they had last been seen narrows Tim's pool of suspects both geographically and relationally. Whoever’s targeting employees of the strip club is definitely doing so within Gotham, or at best just beyond the city limits. The windows of opportunity are too narrow to justify any of the bodies being transported outside of Gotham, only to be shipped back in to the harbour. It’s just not feasible. They’ve got to be operating on one of the Bats’ turf. 

They’re also familiar with Gotham’s law enforcement, which makes Tim suspect they’re local to the glittering city. It hadn’t escaped his notice that no missing person reports had been filed before their bodies had washed up with the trawlers at dawn. Whoever’s heading this operation, they’re keeping their handling time low. They’re efficient enough to strip and dispose of a body before any active search can be launched; that speaks to a familiarity with Gotham’s missing persons policies. 

It also alerts Tim to the fact that this is an organisation, not a sole operator. No single individual could pull off such a clean strip in forty-eight hours from catch and release. These traffickers are trained, medical professionals, probably under mob hire, or on the payroll of a larger organisation. 

A quick cross reference of the current territories of the local gangs and mafia reveals that Tim has a working base of seventy-nine gangsters to interrogate. All the gangs are well-established in Gotham, with enough resources to pull together a small if inconsistent organ smuggling trade. Probably not dealing within the city limits themselves, but passing up to a higher, more influential merchant. 

Tim just can’t work out why they’re targeting a gay strip club, of all places. It’s not like Dominik and Zack have all that much in common beyond demographics - both in their twenties, both queer men, and both employed by the Daily O. They both have their names on leases, but in different corners of the city. 

Maybe he’s looking at the symptoms instead of the cause, he considers, sitting back to sip at his cold coffee. Maybe he needs to remove the strip club as a symptom altogether. Coincidences are impossibly rare in their line of work, but they’re not entirely unheard of. Until Tim has better collation, he’s better focusing on the similarities that ring true. 

Another hour of sleuthing, and Tim’s no closer to narrowing his pool of suspects, or even valuable witnesses. He pulls up their autopsy reports, flicking disinterestedly through what medical history Leslie had been able to collate and send through. It’s not particularly enlightening; both men boasted a near impeccable bill of health, no doubt due to a combination of working at an athletic job and enjoying the high standard of healthcare the club offered. 

Tim scrubs a hand down his face, fatigue pulling at his heavy eyelids as he drags Dominik’s file back, and then selects the ‘_Todahl, Z._’ folder to drop it back in its rightful place in the alphabetical directory. Then his heart lurches, and his gaze travels back to the file beneath it labelled ‘_Todd, J._’. 

Two errant clicks and the file splays across the screen in impeccable high definition; rows upon rows of incident file notes from decade-old patrols, progressive physicals, and a comprehensive prior history. Tim shifts to hover over the latter, and pauses with a twist of guilt. He hadn’t realised Bruce had kept files like these. Some of the newer entries are within the last few months, spackled with notations such as ‘blunt force trauma, several displaced ribs’ and ‘compromised rotator cuff; potential weakness’, and Tim frowns at the casual brutality of the suggestions. 

He shifts to the prior history tab, gaze sliding over the neatly organised summary. Then Tim’s heart slides down the length of his spine like a chunk of ice and settles with a nauseating rattle in his stomach. 

It’s not a pretty picture. Tim had known that Jason’s time on the streets would leave him with a cavalcade of ailments before he’d fallen under Alfred’s meticulous care. Had known that the butler would have made it his mission to see the boy back to full health and nutrition. Had known that his few years as Bruce’s ward would have all but wiped his medical slate clean. 

But Tim’s wandering gaze hitches on three innocuous letters plastered across Jason’s incoming medical entry, the one Bruce had compiled the night he’d taken the boy from the streets. A collection of infections, conditions - and one particularly malicious retrovirus. And if Tim had any doubts as to exactly what twelve-year-old Jason had been doing to keep himself alive, he doesn’t anymore. 

It feels like being punched in the gut, the realisation of exactly _ why _ Jason’s so protective of the little community, of the street girls and the lost kids and every other unfortunate soul who found themselves staring desperation down for the promise of a warm meal. Jason’s words ring like a bullet’s ricochet through Tim’s skull: _ I know how rough it can be living on the streets. I know the sort of thing you have to do to keep yourself alive. _

There’s entries, further down, dated in the months that Tim had taken to watching his peripheral for the promise of a red-masked figure and a handful of stray knives. All typed in Bruce’s clinical dictation, aloof and analytical as always. A mention of the aftereffects of the pit, a speculation on a miraculously clean bill of health at cellular level. Right alongside an observation on the correction of mangled bone and muscle that had been Jason Todd on his last day as Robin. 

“You appear to be lost, sir,” a flat, clipped voice says behind him, and Tim jolts nearly a clear foot into the air. He spins to fix Alfred with a guilty smile, fumbling for the keyboard shortcut with one hand. 

“Alfred,” Tim says. 

Alfred’s gaze lifts to the innocuous desktop background, not fooled for a single second. The lines around his mouth pinch in a way that makes Tim feel worse than he had taking the cash from Jason. This is worse, this is _ private_, and Alfred’s disapproval settles in Tim’s stomach like a heavy stone. 

“I should think,” Alfred continues in that low, dangerous timbre, “that one’s private files would remain _ private_. Notwithstanding,” he adds, fixing Tim with a glower that burns through the air in his lungs, “any _ accidental _ discoveries it may find itself subjected to.” 

“Right,” Tim whispers as Alfred brushes past him to retrieve the empty mugs littering his desktop. 

“I do believe,” Alfred says aloofly, starting back for the stairs, “that the sun has _ risen_, Master Timothy. And you are in need of rest.” 

“Yeah,” Tim says hollowly at the butler’s retreating back, “thanks.” 

Tim reopens the file, pointer hovering over the exit key as those three little letters stamp themselves into Tim’s brain again and again and again. He hadn’t realised Bruce still held this file, still held a piece of Jason over him, still _ regularly _ updated his file with comments on upgraded injuries and newly discovered weaknesses. Tim imagines what the last entry on Jason’s file will look like, with a neat attachment from the medical examiner’s office; tries to think what sort of notations Bruce would leave on Jason’s autopsy. Whether Jason’s obituary would be just as clinical, just as dismissive of the man beneath the mask. 

His gaze sharpens at the thought of Bruce keeping files on them all, cataloguing their weaknesses like moves in a chess match. Wonders how much of Tim’s own injuries he’s weaponised into weaknesses; wonders if he’s got all the personal details of things like Tim’s impromptu splenectomy in there, the reflexive plastic surgery and the white tattooing that had followed so that he could keep his cover, could continue serving Bruce and Batman with all his being. To have his loyalty twisted into a potential betrayal like that floors Tim. The idea of Bruce having any advantage, any ace card to lord over Jason, fills Tim with unbridled spite. 

He opens the idling command prompt, booting the archive file in the buried directory, and types out a quick few malicious lines of code. When Tim hits enter, the screen flickers once, the file labelled ‘_ Todd, J. _’ blinking out of existence, scraped raw from the annals of Bruce’s comprehensive database with a thoroughness that Oracle would approve of. 

Then he kicks back the chair and erases his log and physical presence from the Cave’s surveillance system in its entirety. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs of the night are "Anaconda" by Nicki Minaj and "It's Raining Men" by The Weather Girls. 
> 
> ** As at 10/24/19, some artworks have been retrospectively included in both of the previous chapters. So go check them out! ;) And don't forget to give [ride-the-dinos](https://ride-the-dinos.tumblr.com/ask) your love**


	4. Sinful Sunday

"Do I have to teach you how to punch?” Jason asks with a quirked brow. 

This time, Teddy doesn’t pull his hand away from where it rests low on Jason’s abdomen, fingers gently scratching at the velvety skin layered over taut muscles. The younger man is smiling just as sweetly as before, but his eyes are so bright they burn where they trail over his naked chest. 

“No, but maybe you could teach me something else,” Teddy says softly, his palm molten hot as it slides down the swell of his pubic bone, wrapping around him where he needs it most. Jason’s eyelids flutter at the sensation, those fingers sinfully slick as they squeeze and pull down the column of his flesh, twisting his wrist once he reaches the tip and pumps him all the way back to the base. He shivers when Teddy's hand grows surer, faster, precum glistening over his clever fingertips. White noise crackles in Jason’s ears, strangely familiar as he bites his lower lip hard enough to bleed, the pain setting off the pleasure. If he could concentrate on anything besides the way Teddy literally has him by the balls he would realize that someone, somewhere, is playing _ When Doves Cry_.

“Oh yeah?” Jason asks cockily and just a little bit more than breathy, leaning into the kid’s personal space to crowd him up against the leather booth at the back of the club. The man stumbles into it, knees buckling so that he topples down onto his plush, rosy rear. He reaches again for Jason's erection, but he takes hold of the boy's thin wrist and pins it back against the seat. Jason licks his lips, watching as dark fringe falls into those clever, electric blue eyes. Teddy’s kissable lips pout up at him. He’s so tantalizing that Jason gives in to the urge to taste them. 

Ducking his head down, he nuzzles against that soft mouth, gently sealing their lips together. Teddy’s silky hair brushes his forehead as the kid tilts his neck, their mouths slanting even closer. Slow, languid glides of tongue roll over the roof of his mouth, and Jason can’t help the soft noise that escapes his throat. Teddy tastes like chocolate and coffee, smells like soft powder and crisp lace. There’s something else deeper down he can’t put his finger on and Jason chases it, hungry for more.

The firm press of fingernails against his neck send tingling trails up his scalp and Teddy’s soft exhalation when their lips part makes him want to hear it over and over again. Jason gathers the kid up in his arms so he can wrap those beautiful legs around his waist and thrust up against the warmth between them. He can feel the kid’s hands begin to shake as his milky thighs squeeze tight and Jason croons his approval, nipping his earlobe.

“Teddy,” Jason moans, sliding his hands down to cup the soft curves of his lovely little backside, the tiny bows on the back of his bodysuit undone to give him free access to the soft, yielding flesh. Undressing is an indistinguishable blur of motion, but he’s sure he’s shredded the flimsy little black number the boy was wearing and he can’t bring himself to care about how mad Yolanda will be. He tastes the precious lines of scar tissue on the smaller man’s skin, reverently sucking a bruise into the one that grazes over his jugular. He wants to erase that pain there, cover it with pleasure and make it his alone. Jason rumbles softly as Teddy’s lithe, naked body slips against him, his perfectly pink cock grinding into his stomach. The kid sounds just as desperate as Jason feels, his hands latching onto Jason’s shoulders and clinging for dear life.

“Yeah,” Teddy whimpers, “_oh,_” a high pitched gasp escapes him as Jason spreads him open and presses his aching tip against the resistance, the tightness giving just enough until he slides home _ hip deep _. It’s so intense that he can’t hang on, not when Teddy is crying out a litany of “please” and “yes” against his neck and chasing his cock with every thrust. The kid looks at him like he’s worth his weight in gold, that luscious mouth calling his name so sweetly that it’s all Jason needs. He comes hard enough that he swears he can see the universe being created behind his eyelids.

“_Tedd--nnggh_!” Jason gasps, jerking awake as his orgasm stabs him square in the gut. He can’t help but be disoriented as _ Prince _ warbles on the clock radio at his bedside. His chest heaves as he trembles against the mattress, hips seizing up as the pleasure radiates throughout his nerve endings. He rides the last embarrassing stretch of his nocturnal emission down into his boxers and lets loose a euphoric moan at the finish despite himself.

He goes still, burying his face into his pillow until his breathing evens out and his heart no longer pounds like he’s just finished racing over rooftops. Hot humiliation washes over him as he becomes aware of the room around him and what just happened. Only when the heat fades, leaving him cold and clammy, does he push himself up to survey the damage. Blushes fiercely when he realizes he’s going to have to wash _ everything_.

“You okay in there?” Roy calls out from somewhere in the apartment, too far away to be at the door but not distant enough that he didn’t just fucking hear him through the paper thin walls. 

“I’m fine!” Jason returns hastily, disengaging from the sheets clumsily. He knows his voice shakes on the notes, still sex-rough in a way that paints a target on him. 

Jason thinks about just telling him it was a nightmare. Before he can even open his mouth, Roy fucking ruins his morning by asking him the one question he did not want to hear. 

“So, who’s Teddy?” 

Jason stiffens down the length of his spine, before anger and mortification meld in the cauldron of his stomach, propelling him out of the bed entirely. He can hear Roy’s footsteps approach the door, and he fumbles for the nub of the lock, hurriedly turning it. 

He can practically feel Roy hesitate outside the door, watches the flimsy wood bend inwards slightly when he leans a shoulder up against it. Jason swallows and flinches when Roy drawls, “You uh, got company in there, bud?” 

“Fuck off, Roy,” Jason bites, yanking at the sheets hard enough to tear one corner. He curses under his breath, bundling them up and dumping them in the half-empty hamper. He glances down, groaning at the stickiness drying between his thighs, and shucks his shorts too, limp skipping for the bathroom. 

“I’m just keeping an eye out for my best bud,” Roy calls through, and Jason can hear the curl of his smile. He flicks the faucet on, shouldering into the shower and bludgeoning his elbow on the tap. “You know you can tell me anything, right?” 

Sure, Jason thinks with a wash of embarrassment as he reaches for his loofa, anything. 

* * *

“C’mon man, tell me!” Roy whines, butting his head between Jason’s shoulder blades as he measures out laundry detergent. 

He bats him away once he finishes loading the washer and starts the cycle, trying not to blush again. The archer laughed at him the moment he’d stepped out of his bedroom freshly showered with a laundry basket balanced against his hip. Guffawing loud enough to disrupt all the neighbours on his apartment floor wasn’t exactly a good way to get Jason to be forthcoming, but the archer didn’t really seem to care either way - he was having fun. 

“Knock it off.” 

Jason scowls as he pads into the kitchen, eager to start making some breakfast and move on with his day. Roy’s snickers fade as he finally relents. He takes up the lounge, heels kicking up onto one of the arms as he takes to tinker with another bite-sized gizmo. It’s after twelve and Jason knows he should sleep some more, but there aren’t any spare blankets and he has to let the mattress air out. 

He opens the cabinet to retrieve a coffee mug and rubs a hand over his face, hoping everything will have dried out by tomorrow when he needs to crash. Roy’s teasing aside, he feels like a complete idiot; he hasn’t had a wet dream since he was a teenager in the throes of puberty. He glares at the back of Roy’s head as he expands his kingdom of debris out onto the couch again. At least Alfred had never laughed at him. 

He feels a twinge of guilt at the thought of the old butler. He hasn’t called him in a while, and he hasn’t seen him in nearly twice that long. After the last brawl with Bruce, he hadn’t felt comfortable within ten miles of the manor. In Bruce’s book, he was on the thinnest of ice, skating a hairline so fine that it was hard to tell which side of it he was on anymore. Bruce had called it a ceasefire, but Jason called it for what it was - disownment. 

He could stay in Gotham under the Bat’s good graces, but only in his little corner of the Narrows with the unspoken agreement that he’d be promptly put in his place should he wander outside the boundaries. This case was definitely going to bring the heat down on him if he was caught snooping around in the Bats’ territory, but he didn’t care; it wouldn’t be the first or the last time Bruce beat him down. 

Jason pours himself a cup of coffee, bitter and slightly burnt, just like the resentment that brews the longer he dwells on his family. While waiting for his bagel to toast, he flips through the folder containing his current casework to distract himself. Zack Todahl was the one found bobbing up in his part of the harbor after a rough storm had swept in. His informant at the docks had sent him word about the body and helped him fish the dead man out before the cops could arrive. 

The corpse, crumbled and sagged where Jason laid him out on the timber of the docks, had been unrecognizable from the beautiful young man he’d once been. Someone had stripped him clean of his organs and thrown out the rest like table scraps. Had taken a crowbar clean to his teeth too, by the state of his jaw. Jason had stared down at his sallow features with bubbling dismay and rising alarm. Zack had only been twenty years old, and this was where Gotham’s twisting rivers of fate had led him. 

He’d been a looker once, waif-like with sharp, angular features that drew attention to his sultry brown eyes. When the coroner had identified him, Jason had petitioned Roy to download the files to open his own investigation. 

The youth and vitality of the victim had come as a shock. Jason had seen a lot of DMV pictures in his line of work, most of them decimating even conventionally attractive people’s confidence with the shitty IDs the government-issued produced. Zack’s was by far the prettiest he’d laid eyes on in his history of hacking government databases, and he almost wondered if the man had been a meta. No one went to the DMV and looked that good afterwards. Even in casual wear, his light brown hair drawn up into a haphazard bun, the man had still looked like a model. 

Jason had nearly been sick with fury, recognizing the hallmarks of organ traffickers at a glance. Their disposal methods been organized, clinical, and most unfortunately, clean. The hours Zack’s body had spent in Gotham’s acidic harbour water had stripped away whatever identifiable evidence remained on his skin; and based on the petri dish of cells Jason had taken from his skin and analysed, the man had been dipped in something caustic before being tossed into the water too. The methodology screamed experience, and Jason had spent the next few days rattling the shit out of anyone who so much as looked like a trafficker. 

It wasn’t until Yolanda’s tip came in like a boon that he’d been able to make any progress. She’d been the one to link Dominik Nowak and Zack Todahl, drawing down on their employment at the same venue as more than just coincidence. 

Things had seemed promising when Roy had hacked the Batcomputer for him. It was the next best thing to analysing the body himself. Since Dominik had floated downstream and landed in Red Robin’s territory, Jason had been forced to settle for secondary reports logged directly into the Batcave’s database. Normally he wouldn’t risk such a tactic, but this case hit too close to the heart for him to trust it to them. 

Good thing he hadn’t too, because from the dates on the reports, the little idiot had known about Dominik for over a month and not lifted a goddamn finger as far as he could tell. Just filed it away and added it to the teetering tower of casefiles, assigned Dominik a number and a place in the queue. 

What was the point of having territories if you couldn’t take care of them, he’d thought venomously. Some replacement Tim turned out to be.

Jason had retraced Dominik’s footsteps for almost the full week up to his death, and was frustrated to find nothing more than a deadbeat brother and a seriously hot-tempered boyfriend. Neither had been involved as far as he could see, but he’d been sorely tempted to kneecap the brother on principle. A brief flick through the print out from the service provider detailing the threatening texts had told Jason everything he’d needed to know about the sort of man Franciszek Nowak was. 

Logic had won out. Jason was still hopeful the man would do the honorable thing and hang himself. No reason for Jason to give him the easy way out. Besides, he was stupid. All the trackers and listening devices he’d planted in Francis’ home had been _ extremely _ helpful with his _ other _work. Soon enough the gang the little bastard was affiliated with would be nothing more than a memory in the churning mill of Gotham’s criminal hierarchy. Jason made a mental note to stop by the boyfriend’s house later and retrieve his listening devices; no point wasting some of Roy’s best work on a man who obviously wasn’t ambitious enough to be his guy. 

Jason had wrapped up a neat bow on the Nowaks and declared Dominik a dead end for now; the trail had gone cold, and Zack’s path was fading fast. 

Comparatively, Zack’s life was less complicated than Dominik’s. Jason’s investigation hadn’t turned up more than a whopping medical debt and a near-perfect to-the-minute obsession with catching the grit cardio exercise session at his local gym. His mother was seriously ill and in desperate need of a liver transplant; but with her age, history of alcoholism and Gotham’s overburdened public health system, it was likely she’d be joining her deceased son before she ever saw one. Jason flips through the papers, scowling when he notices someone has stained several of them with what looked like grease. 

“ROY!” he shouts, waving the folder accusingly. “The fuck you do to my files?”

“I was organizing.” Roy munches a mouthful of bagel, unperturbed. “Y’know, since you’re so busy with your night job.”

“What, by using it as a coaster for a burger?” Jason drops the file onto his small dinette table with disgust. 

“I was hungry,” the redhead smirks. 

“This guy is dead,” Jason snarls. “Someone literally gutted him like a fish and tossed him in the harbor for chum. Could you _ please _ not treat this like trash?” 

“Sorry.” Roy gets up from the couch, dropping his dish in the sink as he draws near - an apology, Jason’s sure. He takes hold of Jason’s wrist and strokes the pulse fluttering there with his thumb. “You know I wouldn’t do that. I really didn’t mean to get them messy, promise.” 

Jason inhales deep and pinches the bridge of his nose tight to ward off the mounting tension headache. 

“Hey, buddy.” Roy leans into him, winding their arms so that he can hold the taller man’s hand. “This isn’t about the messy papers, is it?” 

“I can’t find anything Roy,” Jason huffs, glaring at his bare feet against his cracked linoleum floor. “I’ve been digging over a fucking month and all I’ve done is gone in circles.” He doesn’t let go of the redhead’s hand, squeezing lightly. 

“Well, you’re the best at stakeouts,” Roy assures him, recognizing the meltdown before Jason does. “Didn’t you always say that it’s right when you feel like giving up that something happens? You’ll catch your break, I know it. You’re doing your best Jay; don’t beat yourself up over the slow progress. These things take time.” He pauses to consider a moment, massaging Jason’s knuckles. “Do you need to take a night off? I can keep an eye on things, if you want.” 

Jason shakes his head vehemently. “No, I can work.”

“I know you can, but that doesn’t mean you should.” Roy nudges him lightly. “Call me if you need a break, okay?” 

“Yeah, yeah.” Jason slips away to finish his breakfast without that scrutinising gaze hanging over him. As much as he tries to take Roy’s words to heart, it’s hard to place stock in them when he’s been reliant on himself for so long. Usually giving himself the space and time to clear his head with an inane puzzle or a familiar novel does the trick, but Jason’s not to sure his regular methods will be as successful this time. Not when the frustration is starting to rear up in unexpected ways. He studiously ignores the hum of the washing machine, pouring over his notes again. 

“Alright, I’m out, don’t get up on my account.” Jason rags Roy when he returns from getting dressed for work, snagging his coat off the hook by the door. The cheeky bastard just blows him a kiss.

“Don’t work too hard.”

More like don’t _ get _ hard, Jason thinks privately. 

* * *

Abel “Twinka Belle” Alvarez was a real firecracker, but Jason didn’t need to review hours of tapes to figure that one out. The man had what was lovingly referred to as ‘resting bitch face’, and he was feisty in both the looks and personality departments. The kind of man you just needed to look at to know he wasn’t someone worth fucking with. 

He was a local Gothamite, born and raised with the same knee jerk paranoia that couldn't be taught. Jason could almost feel a kindred spirit between them; Abel was the kind of guy who knew you always looked over your shoulder in Gotham, because anything could follow you home at night. The best way to survive in Gotham was to be bigger and meaner than the other guy, and whilst that hadn’t been an option for the five foot four inch Abel, he’d taken the sentiment of the best defense being a good offense to heart. 

Jason had cleared the server from his suspect list after the first week, turning his attentions to the flaming dumpster fire of Dominik’s older dipshit brother until that had gotten him nowhere. He’d still hedged his bets early, rigging Abel’s shoebox of an apartment with Roy’s tech until he’d been sure the man’s mourning was genuine. Jason didn’t have any reason left to tap the man now that Dominik’s trail was cold. 

He times his break-in for the last hour of Daily O’s service, heading out on dawn patrol as soon as his last dance at the club is through. It’s his best chance to clean out the place of tech before Abel returns home; servers close up the joint after the dancers leave for the night, and he knows for a fact Twinka Belle was on shift tonight, as he is every night. 

Slipping in through the fire escape comes as second nature to Jason. The kitchen light has been left on, but it isn’t unusual for graveyard shift workers to deter potential thieves with a lightshow. A darkened place makes for easier pickings than the promise of an occupied room and a fistfight. 

Jason makes his way from the kitchen and living room, uninstalling the miniscule spy cameras with rigorous efficiency. It’s not until he’s crouching by the handset on the side table in the foyer that he hears movement in the room behind him. Spinning around, Jason catches the projectile lamp with both hands on reflex, the bright pink shade blocking his vision long enough for the young man to wind up the Louisville Slugger and crack him square in the side with it. 

The wind escapes him with a heave of his stunned lungs, but Jason’s armor holds and his ribs don’t shatter. Gotham really breeds ‘em tough. 

He upends the lamp straight into the air, launching forward into Abel’s airspace. The enraged man tries to step back enough to gain the room to swing again, but Jason’s not stupid enough to risk two good strikes. 

“Strike one,” he snarls, limiting the smaller man’s workable space considerably by backing him straight into a corner of the foyer. It’s a classic error on his part, because being cornered like an animal is not something Abel takes to too well. There’s not enough room for him to swing the bat again, but it doesn’t mean the man can’t use it. 

Jason is unprepared for the handle of the bat to fly straight up like a spear, catching him square in the chin of his helmet. The noise is almost comical, straight out of a Looney Tunes short; a sharp clanking noise that makes Jason’s teeth rattle. 

For a moment he’s dazed, ears ringing as Abel ducks and goes to dart around him. Jason has enough sense to seize the bat with both hands, shoving Abel back and pinning him against the drywall with the makeshift weapon. 

“Touche,” Jason admits over the sound of Abel’s irritable grunt, rolling his jaw as he levels the pissed off server with a flat glower. Abel looks feral, shirt askew and hair falling into his eyes. “But strike two. Y’don’t wanna find out what I do on strike three.” 

Jason drops the bat, wrenching it out of his grip and towards the tile, to a snarl of protest. He wraps both huge palms around Abel’s biceps, hauling him up the plaster, reducing his leverage. Abel spits a curse, squirming _ up _ the fucking drywall as he hitches a bare heel into the meat of Jason’s thigh to propel himself. 

“Que te jodan,” he rasps, hands scrambling for purchase on Jason’s helmet and settling for his throat with desperate malignancy. “¡Hijo de puta! ¡Lame botas!” 

Jason waits him out, pressing his grip harder, constricting around his upper arms until Abel gives a croak of pain. He looks wild, panicked as he winces and snarls, “_Ow, _ hey, you bruise it, you buy it, asshole!” 

He twists until his other knee is free, wrenching it up and into Jason’s armoured side hard enough that he feels the plate compact and shift beneath the force. Abel lets out a sob of dismay when that doesn’t avail him, lips curling back as fury flashes through his dark eyes, his eyelashes wet with pained tears. 

“Que te den,” he chokes, kicking wildly, clipping the armoured plate on Jason’s shin with his bare toes. “_Fuck!_” 

“Would you stop?” Jason snaps, shaking him slightly. “I’m not here to hurt you. I’m not fighting back.” 

“¿De qué estás hecho, rocas?” Abel gasps, glare swivelling to stare down Jason’s glowing lenses as he curls his abused foot in. His teeth gleam in the low light, bared beneath his curled upper lip. 

“Tri-weave kevlar plating, now calm the hell down.” Jason is glad for his helmet’s voice scrambler, because it hides just how tired he sounds. “I’m just here to collect my gear and then I’ll be on my way.” 

“Gear,” Abel repeats dumbly, slumping a little in his grip. He’s still tense, but Jason can see the feral, furious glint edge from his eyes. He finally seems to take in the helmet and armour, runs the visual against his no doubt extensive experience of gangs and their meatheaded cronies. “Wait, who the fuck are-” 

Jason can see the lightbulb pop on when Abel’s gaze slides to the red emblem over his chest, drinking it in now that the man isn’t occupied with trying to bash his head in. He sets him down on his feet again when he stops struggling completely, and steps back. 

Abel drags his eyes up the whole of Jason’s bulk, impressed and irate in a way that only Gothamites can be. “Holy shit, you’re-” 

Jason exhales, rolling out his shoulders self-consciously. “Yeah.”

“_Batman?_” Abel squawks. 

“Oh my fucking god,” Jason bleats, mortification and horror flashing through him. “Please _ never _ call me that again. I’m the Red Hood.” 

He jerks his thumb at himself, at the red insignia over his chest, grumbling, “You think the Bat himself is gonna come to your apartment and investigate your boyfriend’s murder? Get real. He only comes out at night, for one thing, and for another he’s a fucking jackass who can’t be bothered dealing with the actual problems that people face. He only gets out of bed for A-listers like Joker or Mr. Freeze. You know, his _ manufactured problems_.”

Abel blinks through his tirade, an indignant scowl descending over his features. “Wait, you’re investigating me?” The man catches the conversation by the throat, and he smacks Jason square in the chest, the flat of his palm ringing against the stiff plate. “What, the boyfriend did it, is that it? You _ asshole_, I’ll tell you what I told the cops - I didn’t do _ anything _ to Domi! Hijo de _ puta, _ chupapijas-” 

Jason’s heard the spiel; he rushes to nip this rant in the bud. 

“I know you didn’t,” he snaps, looming enough to have Abel tensing defensively. But he falls mercifully silent. “I have to eliminate suspects from the pool so I can narrow my search down too. Unlike those cops, I’m still hunting down the bastards who killed him, so get off my dick, would you?” 

It takes Abel a choked, vibrating moment, but then he spits, with significantly less vehemence, “Get off _ your _ dick? You’re the one who jumped down my throat the moment I tried to defend myself, so how about you back the fuck up, hmm?” 

Jason takes a measured step back, summoning patience as he inhales and allows the server to stomp past him. Abel retreats to the open space of the living room, no doubt seeking more room to manoeuvre if Jason tries to go for him again. It’s probably a remnant of the guy’s upbringing; Jason doesn’t doubt Abel made a target for himself in some of Gotham’s less progressive, gang-run neighbourhoods. He doesn’t turn his back to him this time, though. He has no wish to cop another lamp over the head, and he doesn’t doubt Abel will leap on the first sign of weakness if it’ll give him a chance to bail. 

“Red Hood, huh?” Abel eyes him as he stoops to pick up his now-broken lamp from the timber floor. He bundles the jagged sharps with care, brushing past Jason to drop them into the kitchen trash can. “Aren’t you the one who put all those guys’ heads in a duffelbag?”

“The same,” Jason says without hesitation. Most of the folks in neighborhoods like Abel’s are familiar with his work; Jason’s made a name for himself wringing the scum out of the Narrows and the Bowery with his special brand of retributory justice. 

Abel tenses, shoulders hunching in a way that Jason immediately identifies as defensive. It’s not until he asks, “You’re looking for Domi’s murderers?” in a voice that’s faintly hopeful that Jason realises he’s bracing himself for a refusal. 

“Trying,” Jason answers firmly, and Abel’s head jerks up, cautious. “Not going to close the case until I’ve got something to show for it.” 

Abel fixes him with a stern eye. “When you find the bastards who did that to him, give them closed caskets, yeah?” 

His stare is resolute, unwavering in its sincerity. It chills Jason a bit, the raw fury, the jagged hurt in his cold tone. Jason nods, the motion clipped. “Working on it.” 

“Well, that’s more than anyone else has promised,” Abel sighs in disgust, and some of the tension unfurls from his stiff shoulders. “I guess I have you to thank for Francis being busted in lock up, right?” 

That admission stirs alarm in the depths of Jason’s chest, because he hadn’t put out any order on Francis. He’s not going to be bringing the guy flowers in the hospital, but it needles at him to know that someone’s stepping in on his key leads. Statements like that draw attention, which is why he had specifically left Francis to his own devices. Jason makes a mental note to check into the incident quietly and ensure there really aren’t any pointy ears poking into this case afterall. He nods again, choosing silence to let Abel draw his own conclusions. 

Abel gives a noncommittal grunt, trailing past him again towards the tiny living room. “Just… get your stuff and go,” he mutters, limping a little as he flops onto the busted and stained loveseat. He winces, raising his foot to the coffee table to inspect his bruised toes. 

Jason hesitates before he moves forward, taking hold of the man’s ankle. Abel bleats in protest, yanking at the captive limb. 

“I’m just checking to make sure it’s not broken,” Jason tells him sternly, before he can take a swing at him, tapping through his hood’s scanners until he locates the one he needs. The ligamental scan tells him that nothing looks cracked or broken, but it’s definitely bruised. “It’s fine. I’d ice it down and avoid wearing your heels for a few days though.”

Abel glowers at him as he stands back up. “It’s Management’s policy to wear at least two inch heels.” 

“You ever think about quitting and getting a job that doesn’t tell you what to wear?” Jason quips. 

“Look, not all of us have the luxury to go around doing whatever we please. You think I wanna work as a waiter in a sea of dicks?” Abel trails off, coughing as he glances aside. “Ok, maybe I do wanna be surrounded by hot cock, but I don’t really have options. Nothing pays as well in tips as this job does, and I don’t have any qualifications for a ‘real’ job.” 

“You could work for me,” Jason shrugs, ignoring how Abel fixes him with a suspicious side-eye. 

“Are you offering me a job as your sidekick or something?” Abel plants his feet back on the floor and grips the arm of his loveseat, bracing to defend his dignity. 

“No. I operate alone,” Jason laughs humorlessly, straightening back to his full height. “But I won’t turn down a good informant who knows how to get themselves out of a situation headed south. You look like you’ve got good instincts. Don’t suppose you get jumped often, right?” 

Abel rolls his eyes, massaging the bones of his feet as he waves him off. “Yeah, no thanks. I don’t wanna risk my neck for any of Gotham’s hero complexes.” _ That _ Jason can almost approve of; anyone who refuses to lick the boots of the Bats is already a rung up in his book. “Besides, I won’t work with someone who has such crappy fashion sense.” 

Jason can’t help but be offended at the man’s drawl. “What’s wrong with my look?” 

“For one thing, running around with that bat on your chest makes you look like a little boy playing dress up,” Abel cuts in with savage intent. 

Jason is infinitely appreciative of his helmet again, because he feels his face warm at the implication. He levels his voice to a low growl to rebut, “It’s to get thugs’ attention. As much as I hate the Bat, his symbol does make people listen when I’ve got something important to say,” he adds in a bitter mutter. 

“Well, I say get your own look. People pay attention to guys who put shitheads in duffle bags,” Abel answers with the curl of a smile, and releases his bruised foot to flex the injured muscles. 

Jason can’t disagree with that. They fall into an almost companionable silence until Jason speaks up again. 

“Then you design my look. You guys at the Daily O do good work, so I’ll trust you with it.” He holds out his arms, flourishing both hands in towards his chest in a blatant challenge. “The helmet stays though.” 

Abel stills, searching the impassive features of his mask, before he barks a bleak laugh. It doesn’t sound disappointed though. “You serious?” he entreats hesitantly.

“Yeah, I’ll pay you.” Jason cocks his head. “Mock up a few designs for me. I’ll be in touch.”

“What if I make you look like a queer?” Abel’s eyes sharpen to lethal points. “Put you in pink tights and a leotard?” 

Jason shrugs as he wanders backwards through the kitchen towards the still-open window, hitching a leg over the sill. 

“Abe, babe?” He laughs mechanically, taking a firm grip of the rail. “I ran around in scaly green panties as Robin for the first half of my career. Trust me when I say I literally _ do not care _ if you give me pants or a tutu. I will still kick bad guy ass.” He pauses, feeling the wind permeate his leather jacket as he hoists himself out. “Only reason I wear pants now is because it’s fucking cold as shit in the winter and I’d really like my nuts to not fall off while staking out targets.” 

Abel’s mouth drops open and Jason waves his hand absently as if to bat away his admission.

“I do not take credit for _ that _ train wreck of a costume by the way. You got beef with the pixie boots and hotpants, take it to Nightwing in Bludhaven. He’s the original.” 

With that last parting shot, he shoots his grapel line and swings off the escape, leaving Abel to process that little tidbit of Gotham lore. 

* * *

The house is absolutely packed when Tim arrives for his shift, and he’s unprepared for the hordes bum-rushing the bar to block his way to pick up his tray and order pad. The other servers look unperturbed, as does Charla, bustling around the bellowed orders at full tilt. Tim thought Saturday had been busy, but tonight there’s not an empty seat in the house. He can see that there are even more standing in the back by the door, pushing to their toes to catch a glimpse of the as-of-yet empty stage. Finally, with liberal use of elbows and some Dick Grayson-esque manoeuvring, he manages to squeeze through a gap in the wall of bodies and crawls his way behind the equally cramped bar. 

He’s tangoed with some of the best in the business and gone up against League of Assassins without breaking a sweat. Here with the crush and the rush, he is out of his depth and awkwardly out of place. In his regular lace-thin teddy, he can feel every press of heated skin and sweat against his flesh. Plucking up a tray he turns back around and nearly collides with Charla, who graciously bends herself out of the way of his tray, bowing her back to do so.

“Oop- oh!” She brightens when she realizes that he was the one to nearly take her out of commission, chirping, “Teddy, you’re here!” 

“Yeah, sorry I’m late, there’s a lot of people in the way. What’s going on tonight?” Tim tucks the tray under his arm as he tries to triangulate how he’s going to get back out on the floor again, nevermind carry orders back and forth. 

“Jack told me to tell you to go straight to the backroom when you got here.” Charla plucks away his tray and pad, leaving him empty handed. She seems entirely too happy about this, and he blinks stupidly at her. 

“T-the back?” Tim swallows hard, heart beginning to pound again. _ He knows_, Tim thinks in a panic, _ he’s going to kill me and then stuff me in a duffel bag to put on Bruce’s doorstep. _“Like, with the dancers?” 

“Yeah, you better hurry up, he’ll have to be on stage soon,” Charla shoos him, and suddenly the crowds make sense. Tim had noticed that when Jason was scheduled to work a pole the crowds were much larger. He can’t say he doesn’t understand, because he too has been transfixed to the roll and undulation of the man on the pole every single night he’s stepped up to bat. 

Tim makes his way back through the crowd to the curtained entrance of the Pit, dodging the stage hands and dancers as they bustle about. They manhandle their way around him in droves, hot palms squeezing his waist as they move him aside and out of their path. Tim presses himself against the wall and edges into the dressing room with a sigh of relief. The dancers are decked out in an array of leather, silk and frilly lace; an odd combination that leaves him perplexed as he casts around for Jason. 

“Teddy!” 

He hears Jason call out to him from somewhere further back, and he spots the taller man over by a secluded corner where the dancer’s dressing tables are, waving emphatically. Tim hesitates, scanning the ex-Robin’s features for any sign of anger or violence. Jason waves him over impatiently, his eyes practically dancing with mischief. When he finally steps within Jason’s reach, the man seizes his upper arm, dragging him into the wardrobe, past a stage hand carrying some props to put back into storage. Tim’s yelp is swallowed up by the bustle, and Jason doesn’t let him go until they’re standing before one of the many racks. 

Jason’s lips twitch into an equally fond and sultry smile when he glances down at him. Tim’s not entirely sure how he manages to keep such an expression on his features, but he manages it. “‘Landa,” he calls loudly, making Tim jump, and receives a wordless call in reply. “I want an accessory tonight.” 

That makes the drag queen emerge from the wardrobe with a wary frown. “It’s Sinful Sunday,” she contests. “Your act is a guaranteed seat filler. Why would you want to change your routine?” 

Jason shrugs, drags his gaze up Tim’s torso. “Thought changing it up might be a nice breath of fresh air for the regulars.” 

Now he has her attention. Yolanda comes to his side, appraising Tim with a frown. Tim can see a few beads of sweat on her brow, a few loose strands of hair as she drags those dark eyes down his scantily clad form. “What did you have in mind?” 

“You got a teddy that comes in white lace?” he asks, tilting his head as he assesses Tim’s narrow stature. “Maybe some wings for Teddy here?” 

Yolanda’s features bloomed with realisation, a toothy smile parting her purple, glittered lips. “I think I’ve got something in the back. I’ll have him on stage by the time you head up; go get yourself ready.” 

Jason acquiesces to her shooing, winking once at Tim as he ducks back into the dressing room, leaving Tim standing dazed in the wake of the whirlwind. 

* * *

He’s been wrestled into a delicate teddy, as prophesied. It’s all near-translucent, a white lace V that flares into short ruffles over the arches of his hips, cinched in at his waist with a tasteful white bow. Yolanda ducks down to paint silver glitter down the flat of Tim’s sternum as he tries not to squirm, canting when she descends to the section of stomach bared over his navel. 

“So,” Tim entreats, and she hums without looking up. “What am I supposed to… do?” 

She flashes him a blinding smile. “Sit pretty, darling. Easiest job in the world. Accessories are just living decorations. Let Jack do all the work; he’ll lead you if he wants you somewhere specific. But for the most part, you’ve just gotta sit still and let him do his thing.” 

“So I don’t need to do any pole work?” Tim asks, volume softening embarrassingly with each word. Yolanda laughs. 

“Oh, no, sweetcheeks. You’re not expected to get up on the pole.” She skirts around him to adjust the wings glued between his shoulder blades, fluffing out the fake feathers with meticulous care. “But I do need you on stage in twenty minutes, so lets get some jewels on those lids and some lipstick on you. I’m thinking gold?” 

Tim let her babble about him, painting his lips and sequining his eyelids, smearing thick silver-and-gold glitter over his cheekbones. She dabs a final smattering of white over his eyelids, accenting it with a stripe of white eyeliner before she pecks the air above his cheek. 

“Ethereal, sweetcheeks,” Yolanda croons, tapping his ass twice to incite him to stand. Tim slides to his feet, adjusting to the sensation of the wings wobbling behind his shoulders. He’ll have to be especially conscious of them when he moves about; he doesn’t think Yolanda will forgive him if he de-wings himself prematurely. “Now get that cute little ass on stage.” 

Tim scurries off under that proud gaze, ducking into the corridor and nearly running into the stage hand posted there to collect him. 

“Come on,” they insist, gripping his wrist none-too-gently. “Get a move on, you’re needed on stage.” 

The curtains are already drawn up, exposing Tim to the world as he’s hustled across stage. A few absent wolf whistles float out across the crowd, and Tim resolves not to blush as he’s guided over to the pole and pushed down with two firm hands on his chest. 

Tim settles on his knees, framing the pole with his shoulders as he squints out into the darkness. The stagehand abandons him there, hurrying offstage. He still can’t see through the thick gleam of the default stage lights, but based on the cacophony of low murmurs, it’s got to be a full house waiting for him out there. 

The lights dim suddenly, snapping off once more and plunging him into darkness before he can start to properly think about just how many people’s eyes are trained on him. 

The bassline thrums through the stage, vibrating up Tim’s crooked thighs, offset by the staccato counterpoint as the music sets up an eager, steady pace. It’s almost anticipatory, and it makes Tim’s breath coil short and sharp in his lungs as red strobes begin to roam, skimming the floor but never alighting on him. 

“_It’s as good a place to fall as any,_” the female voice moans, speckling the backs of Tim’s eyelids with religious imagery. He’s aware of a subdued cheer rolling through the crowd, and he suspects - somewhere behind him - Jason’s made his entrance. “_We’ll build our altar here._” 

He’s proven right when the six foot figure emerges from Tim’s peripheral, doused in a golden spotlight. Tim’s jaw must fall open, because Jason’s lips crook into a devilish smile, and Tim can’t help but drag his gaze longingly up the stiff skirts of his dark cassock. They shift over his thighs, cinched at Jason’s narrowed waist as he strides across the stage in front of Tim. He feels like he’s on a lead, head turning to follow Jason as he poses. 

When Jason lifts his hand, Tim can see a wooden rosary wrapped around his palm. He passes it between his lips in the next second, biting down on a grin as he sets his freed hands to the pole, circling Tim leisurely. 

“_Make me a believer - I’m already on my knees._” 

Tim takes a moment to come back to himself when they break eye contact, _ startlingly _ aware of how on-display he is as he presses his crooked thighs together. There’s nothing between him and the hungry eyes of the crowd but a thin veneer of white lace. The sharp breath he sucks in tastes of sweat and heat, and Tim flushes when Jason circles back to the front, planting himself before Tim and the pole. 

Jason dips down to drag his lips an inch off the line of Tim’s jaw, and Tim swears he stops breathing. He’s bent at the waist, ass facing towards the crowd, but his eyes are fixed on Tim when he asks around the rosary, disguised by the thrum of music, “Hands up on the pole, angel.” 

Tim flushes scarlet, sure that it makes a startling contrast to his white lace - probably makes the glitter smeared across his cheeks and down his chest pop too. But he lifts his hands obediently, wrapping them back around the pole above his head and gulping when Jason flashes a beaming grin down at him. He straightens slowly, rolling back up until he’s upright again, to a holler of approval from the crowd. 

The music hitches into a faster, more insistent tempo as Jason sures his grip on the pole, planting his boots wider to either side of Tim’s knees, leaving half a foot either side. It drops him down a head or so, until his hips are hovering suggestively right about Tim’s eyeline. 

As Tim stares in mortification, Jason reaches down to the row of buttons along his skirts and rips them open, throwing the cassock back over his open thighs. Tim has a startlingly clear image of what they must look like, with Tim’s face obscured by Jason’s crotch, his hands flexing around the pole above his head, elbows crooked skyward as Jason leans down over him, possessive. It’s enough to make him slump weakly back against the pole, gaze fixed on the slow roll and flex of Jason’s clothed groin, directly in front of his lips. 

“_Sweating out confessions, the undone and the divine._” 

Jason caves, knees buckling as he lowers himself in a controlled descent until he’s almost straddling Tim’s thighs, head thrown back in a silent cry of benediction. When it slumps forwards again, Jason meets Tim’s wide eyes and instructs quickly, “Stand up, angel. Keep your hands on the pole.” 

Tim does as he’s told, gripping the metal firmly and rolling his hips up until he finds his feet. It angles his hips directly towards Jason’s face, slow and deliberate, and Jason’s gaze follows as his navel rises, entranced. 

“_Such selfish prayers,_” the music croons, laying Tim’s thoughts bare. “_And I can’t get enough._” 

Then Jason’s following him up, hands fluttering over the ruffles on his hips, barely touching until they slide around the backs of his thighs. Tim has the briefest moment to realise what Jason’s intending before that grip firms and Tim’s toes are parting from the stage. He’s folded up, Jason stepping forward to press himself against Tim, pinning him between his abdomen and the pole. 

Jason’s hands part from his thighs, lifting to grip the pole firmly above Tim’s own hands, and then he surges forwards. For a split second Tim worries he’s going to crush him against the unrelenting metal, but then Jason’s weight is shifting, _ dropping _ even as his arms crook. Then he’s rising, legs straight and extended where they hook under Tim’s splayed thighs as he hoists them both up the pole. 

Tim’s pretty sure he blacks out for a spare few seconds, but when he comes back to find himself sitting on Jason’s very firm thighs, pressed back against the pole as Jason holds them suspended off the ground, his consciousness slams back into his body with a vengeance. 

He links his ankles in the small of Jason’s back, gripping the pole tight as he meets Jason’s grin with a stare that feels awestruck. 

“Hold tight,” Jason orders in a low murmur that Tim barely hears over the crescendo of the music. 

Then he grunts and flexes his arms, his biceps firming as he lifts and lowers them suggestively on the pole, imitating three long, deep thrusts. Tim is blindingly aware that he’s sporting a hard-on from a combination of the friction and having all that muscle practically fused to his skin. Having him spread wide around Jason’s waist certainly isn’t helping matters either, but Jason doesn’t seem even slightly put off by this development. 

Tim hasn’t the faintest idea how someone in a full cassock can look so freakin’ sexual, but Jason is a wonder to behold. Tim’s in _ lingerie_, for God’s sake, and even his eyes are glued to the gathering of those long sleeves at Jason’s biceps, and the peek of stiff white collar bobbing against his throat. In that moment, Tim wants nothing more than to tear the entire thing off him. 

He’s dragged back to reality by Jason grunting, biting down hard on the rosary between his teeth as he levels out again, hanging by the grip of his fists on the pole. “Gonna put you back down on the stage, angel. Need you to kneel for me, ‘kay?” 

Tim nods dumbfoundedly, heels digging into the small of Jason’s back when he starts to lower them again. He slides down the pole in a slow, excruciatingly tense drag, until Tim’s ass is flush to the stage, and Tim hastily unhooks his legs from Jason’s thighs, dropping his hands. 

Jason wastes no time in hoisting himself back up again, the heels of his boots brushing the floor briefly to give him lift as he grips the pole and hauls himself around it in a twirl. Every motion screams of raw power, and Tim doesn’t have to be able to see his musculature to know his core will be pulled tight into rock-hard abs. He can already discern the strain in those wrists as Jason whips himself around the pole, feels the metal bow slightly where Tim’s back is pressed to it. 

There’s a few close calls, but Jason only ever skims the air to either side of Tim’s head before swinging up into a complicated pose. Tim’s just starting to settle into being an on-stage decoration when Jason curls himself against the pole and upends himself directly above Tim. 

Toes stretched towards the ceiling, Tim watches as he luxuriously parts his legs, holding Tim’s gaze with a wicked gleam as he lets himself skirt down the pole face-first. The rosary is still between his teeth, the wooden beads dangling low enough to brush the tip of Tim’s nose where he stares up into those blue-green orbs. 

He gets the picture when Jason artfully drags the small wooden cross over his parted lips, and Tim opens wide to take it when Jason lowers the beads into his mouth. As soon as Tim’s teeth close on the wood, Jason relinquishes it, letting it drop to a taunt snap as the music cuts and the lights blink out. 

The crowd erupts beyond the light spots in Tim’s vision, almost loud enough to mask the sound of Jason’s boots hitting the stage when he dismounts. Tim blinks to clear the whiteburns swimming across his eyes, and reaches out to take the hand the Jason offers him. Lets himself be hauled shakily to his feet and set upright. 

Jason turns to present him to the braying crowd, and Tim fights to shove down the blush crawling up his neck. Then Jason turns to lightly kiss Tim on the cheek, covertly whispering, “Thanks for the favour, angel,” into his ear as he does so. 

* * *

Jason folds the cassock and stacks it neatly on his station as he undresses, the dark fabric hiding the bloodstains embedded deep into the fibers. When he first started at the Daily O, he’d been unable to fit into any of the costumes Yolanda had for Sinful Sundays, which left him to find his own on short notice. If only Father Leary could see what his old habit was up to now. Unfortunately for him, he was currently worm food in the graveyard of the very church Jason had caught him diddling kids in. 

There were a lot of things Jason regretted doing when he first came back to Gotham. Offing a pedophile as prolific as Father Leary hadn’t been one of them.

He heaves a small sigh as he listens to the muted thumping of the club before he begins pulling on his street clothes. Father Rodd only makes one appearance per Sinful Sunday for two reasons; to keep the crowds eager and fresh, and also so that he can have an early night. Yolanda had been impressed that he was going to be working around the clock to track the culprit down, but she’d stressed to him that he would need to relax at least once in a while. 

“It’s the Lord’s day of rest, honey,” she’d told him solemnly, before they both laughed. She probably thought it was amusing because it was a club of sin. Jason, however, knew better. There wasn’t any rest for the wicked, much less for the people who wiped them off the face of the earth. 

He tosses the cassock into his bag and zips it closed. 

He really needs to patrol, because his network was getting restless. It wasn’t unusual for him to go off-grid for a week or so, but even he knew he was pushing it to be gone over a month. Nothing like a few appearances to soothe his eager fans. Who was he to deny some begging crooks a good thumping? 

He pulls his leather jacket on slowly, feeling the reassuring weight of his cellphone hanging heavy in the left pocket. Unlocking it with an absent thumb, he scrolls through his text log and opens Roy’s conversation. His head just isn’t in the space for a patrol tonight, and he can admit it. He types the message three times before he erases it altogether and drops his phone back into his pocket.

Jason draws in a breath, trying to erase the memory of Teddy up against him, his smooth legs around his waist, how good he’d looked sprawled out on his lap. He’s always tried to be clinical and detached when he danced, zoning out the crowds around him. Having his wet dream literally come true had nearly been too much for him to bear. Especially with the reminder of how affected Teddy had been, just by the _ sight _ of Jason. 

It sends a dizzying thrill up his sternum, even as he tries to tamper down on it with a bucket of cold logic. Teddy’s new to the club scene, he reminds himself, probably doesn’t have the same training or control as the dancers who do this nightly. Whatever excitement Jason noticed was just a case of awkward friction plus proximity. So he sucks it up, tells himself it’s nothing but coincidence, and tries not to focus on the way Teddy’s body seemed to slot perfectly against him. 

Or how much he wanted to just pull aside those lacy white panties and make the kid come in his fist. 

Jason cups his nose and mouth with his hands, willing himself to not get hard. Not only does he not want to deal with an awkward boner right now, right here, at _ work_, but he’s not looking forward to the enjoyable motorcycle ride home. Well, he could probably manage the latter, but just the thought of Roy laughing at him again is enough to have Jason’s stomach plummeting and dousing any fire flickering through his loins. 

“You okay, Jersey?” 

Tommy drops down onto his stool with a huff of relief, devil wings bouncing jauntily against his broad back as he struggles to get them off. The harness looks too tight for his well-built shoulders, and he shimmies irritably, contorting as Jason lifts his gaze. 

“Huh?” Jason says, a little startled. “Oh, yeah. Just tired.”

“Yeah, I’ll say. It’s tough work to do the pole alone but with a partner to lift it’s sheer agony.” 

The blonde frowns and grunts, scraping red glitter onto his palms as he almost gets an arm free. Jason frowns and reaches for him, asking, “You want some help with that?” 

With a final pop, he gets his left arm clear, sighing gratefully. Then he beams at Jason, flinging the wings onto his dresser and collapsing in his dresser chair, the curls of his fringe plastered to his pinched forehead. “My feet are killing me.” 

“With those boots, I’m not surprised,” Jason quips with a snort, nudging the toe of the tall platform boots, all shiny black vinyl and metal rivets. “Give me combat boots any day. How the hell you guys walk around in that stuff I’ll never know.” 

“Practice, darlin',” Tommy drawls with a dramatic wink, flipping a hand through the air. He sombers a bit as he begins unlacing one, lost in memory. “I use to wear my Mom’s when I was a kid. Even when Dad caught me and beat me, I’d still sneak around and do it.” He lifts his leg, pointing his toe to flex the strong muscles of his shapely calf. “I don’t see why he thought they were so bad. I mean, high heels were made for men, you know.”

Jason hadn’t known that, but he knew exactly what it was like to have a shitbag for a father. He coughs softly, watching Tommy shuck his boots. 

“So you heading out?” Tommy asks as he starts to clean off the sweat from his performance, make up wipes slowly piling up as he prepares to reapply a fresh layer. 

“I should,” Jason admits, casting a look to the showfloor door as he hesitates. “I’d like to talk to Teddy first though.” 

A grin tips the corner of Tommy’s mouth, smeared lipstick hitched into the corner of his lips. “You got a soft spot for Teddy, huh?” 

_ More like a hard spot, _ Jason thinks, but just offers him a shy shrug. “Thought the kid could use some help. Figured some time on the stage wouldn’t hurt his finances, you know?” 

It’d been a chore getting Teddy to take a couple of grand, and while Jason’s sure the kid’s a miser, he knows that much will only get him so far. He’s also too wise to Jason’s wheedling ways now; he’s pretty certain Teddy would put up much more of a fight if he tried donating to his cause again. But as smart as he was, the kid hadn’t cottoned on to Jason’s ploy to split his earnings. 

Tommy hitches an elbow up on his dresser, appraising Jason dreamily. “You two looked spectacular out there tonight. I haven’t seen a pairs routine that good since before new management took over this place. Nice to see some of Yolanda’s old flair getting its time in the spotlight again. Are you gonna do another routine together?” 

Jason barks a strangled laugh, flushing. “I don’t know if Teddy will let me. I mean, I’m all for it, I am. I had a great time tonight and I think he did too. But I don’t wanna come on too strong and scare him, you know? The kid’s got a history, and I don’t want to infringe on anything personal.” 

“Have you tried,” Tommy entreats hesitantly, “asking him?” 

Jason blinks. “Ask him what?” 

Tommy shrugs. “Ask him if he wants to do another routine with you. Or ask him if he wants to go out sometime. Give him the chance to get to know you a bit better, and you him.” Tommy’s brows rise, excitement painting his bright features. “You should ask him on a date. You two should go on a date, right now. I’m sure Yolanda would let Teddy off early; she’s got a soft spot for you.” 

“I can’t ask Teddy on a _ date_,” Jason hisses, brow pinching. “Are you _ insane?_” 

Tommy waves him off, tugging on a set of buckle up black pumps over his red thigh-high stockings. “Not like a date-date. Just a coffee date. That’s casual enough, right?” Jason must look as mortified as he feels, because Tommy rolls his eyes. “That’s casual. You’re going on a coffee date. Are you gonna ask him out, or do you want me to go find him?” 

“No!” Jason bleats as Tommy powders his neck. “No date. You don’t need to go find anyone, because there’s _ no _ date. I’m not gonna _ ask Teddy out _.” 

“You want to help the guy, yes?” Tommy presses, fixing him with those piercing baby blues. “You want to do another routine with him? Maybe get to know him better, outside work? This is your chance. Trust me, you’ll do fine. You’re overthinking it. You’re a great guy, Jack, believe me. And I want to do this for you. Let me help you with this, yeah?” 

For a moment it’s like he’s thirteen again and Dick Grayson is handing him the pixie boots with his full blessing. Everytime Jason wants something, or things are going well, it always falls apart. Logic is screaming at him to dodge the situation and regroup back on patrol with Roy, but something about Tommy’s sincerity has his heart pounding desperately at the thought of _ maybe _. Maybe this time will be different.

Jason gives a shaky nod. 

Tommy pats his knee fondly, offering him a bright smile. “I’m gonna go get Teddy, okay? You head out back, have a cigarette to calm down. Just make sure you do it in a blind spot.” He leans forward conspiratorially, winking once so that his long lashes flutter coyly. “I won’t tell management about that habit either, yeah? They don’t like us drinking or smoking on the job. Peak health and all that. But I think it’s bullshit. Let me take care of Teddy for you.” 

Jason nods, returns his smile as he hoists his backpack. “Thanks, Nebraska.” 

“Anytime, Jersey,” Tommy replies, finishing his look with a touch of rogue over the apples of his tan cheeks. Then he beams at his reflection and swings back up to his full height, striding from the dressing room with a last shooing motion in Jason’s direction. 

Jason ducks out the back fire door, fumbling a cigarette from his pocket as he retreats into the service alley. It’s a narrow, concreted space between the club and the catering business next door, wedged between the brick walls. A neat stack of flat packed cardboard boxes are organised neatly against the dumpster at the end, a couple of stage hands reclining on them. A handful more are clustered around them, and Jason casts them a glance as he pats himself down for his absent lighter. He must have left it in his dresser, he concedes when he comes up empty handed, and spots the curl of smoke drifting from the group. 

“Got placement at Gotham Central in a month,” one is muttering around a cigarette, taking a relieved drag, “I’m looking at another couple of grand on my degree, which is a bitch.” 

“I did my placement at South Gotham Med,” another replies, one shoulder leaned up on the wall that covers the mouth of the alley from onlookers. They’ve eeked a private little corner for themselves out of range of management’s surveillance. 

“Me too,” a third interjects, and notices Jason’s approach. Her tone hardens. “What do _ you _ want?” 

The visceral quality to her tone makes Jason arch a brow, but he just lifts his cigarette from his lips in explanation, nonchalant. “Anyone got a light?” 

“No,” the first snaps, and puts his cigarette out on the brick. “Performers aren’t supposed to be smoking anyway. What, the rules don’t apply to you?” 

“What,” Jason says, adopting a mocking cadence of his tone, “only the cool theater kids are allowed to smoke? Give me a damn lighter, man.” 

The stage hand’s gaze falls to Jason’s outstretched hand, a sneer curling his lips as he lifts them back to Jason’s flat glare. “Can’t you afford your own? Thought a dancer making big bucks like you could spare some cash for his own fucking lighter.” 

“Are you always an asshole?” Jason asks, and glances around the small impassive circle. “_Really?_” 

Someone slaps a lighter into their palm, and Jason offers an exasperated, “_Thank _ you,” as he cups his hands up to his face. 

“Not supposed to be smoking,” the first stage hand repeats as Jason inhales. 

“Bite me,” Jason answers, returning the lighter. “I’m fit as a fucking fiddle.” 

The stage hand scoffs. “I sincerely doubt that. Your lungs have got to be black as tar with how much you smoke. I’ve seen you sneaking out to the rooftop.” 

Jason glares, unease crawling up his spine at the thought of being watched. He makes a mental note to ensure his patrol gear is more securely stashed when he gets back tonight. “Trust me, buddy,” Jason growls, “I’ve got it on good authority; you don’t get much more peak health than me. I’m a walking miracle.” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“Y’all were saying something about placement,” Jason says by way of diversion, glancing around the circle. He’s not in the mood to be talking about the regenerative properties of magic green goo tonight. 

“We’re all students,” the stage hand says with a dismissive wave of his palm. “Taking classes when we’re not working at this dump.” 

Jason whistles low. “That’s admirable. This job pays you enough for that?”

“We get by,” the stage hand replies in an icy tone. Jason takes that as his cue to leave. Whatever chip on their shoulder these assholes have, Jason’s not getting anywhere antagonising them. Besides, he’s got bigger things on his mind. 

The door behind them creaks as it opens, and Jason turns to spot Teddy huddled under the light, coat pulled tight around him. He can see the kid’s legs when he strides across the alley to join them, descending from a stylish pair of black shorts that look semi-decent. They’re definitely fresh out of wardrobe, and Jason wonders absently if the kid has any clothes to his name, or if he’s just too ashamed to wear thrift shop duds at work. Jason offers him a smile that’s tinged with empathy, beckoning him forwards. 

“Need a light?” the stage hand sneers before Jason can get a word in edgewise. Teddy shuffles his feet and beams after a moment of surprise. 

“Oh, no, thank you. I don’t smoke.” 

The stage hand shoots Jason a pointed look, and then turns to Teddy with an appreciative, “Smart guy.” 

Jason doesn’t like how his gaze drags over the curves of Teddy’s coat where it tucks into his waist and hips. Jason grinds his cigarette under his boot and surreptitiously guides Teddy towards the back gate, voice soft and hesitant when he asks, “Hey, Tommy talked to you?” 

“Yeah,” Teddy says, and looks up at him under the orange gleam of a dying streetlamp. There’s a small smile tugging at his lips, one that makes Jason’s breath stall out. “He, uh, said something about coffee?” 

“Coffee,” Jason repeats stupidly, and then mentally gathers himself. “Yeah, coffee. Like a coffee d- If you want to, that is. You don’t have to if-” 

“Coffee sounds great,” Teddy says with a flash of a smile, and glances up the street. “Did you have somewhere in mind?” 

Jason exhales, some of the tension washing off his shoulders. “I was actually hoping you might have a suggestion.” 

That smiles grows, tentative and hopeful. “I know a place.” 

* * *

Tim shuffles the paper cup between his fingers, nails digging nervously at the cardboard sleeve as he steals surreptitious glances at Jason. The man is sitting stiff and straight in the both beside Tim, being _ excruciatingly _ conscious of Tim’s personal space, to the point where Tim’s considered more than once whether he’s exuding an actual forcefield. 

It’s… cute. Which is not a word Tim’s ever had cause to associate with Jason before, and it’s making his stomach just do flips thinking about what Jason would do to him if he found out Tim considered him _ cute. _

But, well, Tim isn’t calling Jason cute; as far as Jason is concerned, he’s on a date with the bashful Teddy. Tim isn’t sure if the bitterness on the back of his tongue is from the coffee tannins or something else entirely. 

“So,” Jason says, and Tim glances up from where he’s been staring into the depths of his double espresso, “how do you like the Daily O?” 

That’s fairly neutral territory, so Tim clears his throat and offers a smile that he hopes doesn’t seem weak. “It’s great. Yolanda and Charla have been really welcoming. I-I’m enjoying it, I think.” 

“No one giving you any trouble?” Jason presses, fidgeting with the box of donuts on the table between them. It shuffles slowly under the fluorescents, and Tim finds himself wishing again that he’d had to courage to take Jason to a _ decent _ coffee shop, and not just the nearest Dunkin’ Donuts in a five mile radius whose online review ensured him that it hadn’t been raided by armed lunatics in the past seven months. 

But Tim had taken one look down at the trench coat he’d picked up at a thrift store on his way into work, at the smattering of clothes he’s clinging to to keep Teddy’s persona in tact, and conceded that a coffee shop where they meticulously steep the tea in artistic little beakers and complicated glass tubing was probably not the sort of joint Teddy would feel at home in. While he’s sure Jason would have _ adored _ their selection of chamomile, Tim’s favourite coffee shop screams a bit too much ‘Timothy Drake-Wayne’ for him to get away with it. 

So here they were, huddled in a suspiciously sticky booth, under the flickering fluorescents, surrounded by obnoxiously orange-and-pink signage. Tim doesn’t know why it feels so natural, why it feels like a normal date, that normal people have, with their normal lives. Doesn’t know why that thrills him so much when he knows it’s a lie. 

It’s not entirely a lie though. He is _ here, _ with Jason Todd, in the flesh. And Jason looks just as nervous as Tim feels, so it can’t be just him. And Jason had _ insisted _ on this date, so there must be some part of Teddy - some part of Tim - that he genuinely likes. Enough to spend a morning with, anyway. 

“I’m settling in just swell,” Tim says with the curl of a smile, shifting his palms to warm them on the paper cup. “Like I said, everyone has been very friendly. Even in unexpected places.” 

Jason flushes a little when he catches Tim’s gaze, scrubbing the back of his neck as he pushes the box on the table towards him. “You want a donut? You should probably eat something. Sorry for keeping you from going home. I guess I should have planned this a little better.” 

“Ja-ack,” Tim corrects, and smothers his slip in a quick smile. “I’m having a good time. I like spending time with you here, drinking coffee. And it’s the least I could do to thank you for your gift.” 

Jason’s brow pinches a bit in equal parts relief and concern. “Have you got yourself a decent place now?” 

Tim nods. “Yeah, I rented a motel room. They gave me a discount for upfront payment, so I’m allowed to stay for a week.” 

Tim’s fairly certain Jason’s snooping to make sure he’s spending the cash on something up to code. Tim had actually rented out a room, if only to get his name on the bill as proof that Teddy was getting himself off the streets. He doesn’t put it past Jason to go digging around in bookings just to assuage himself with the knowledge that one more unfortunate soul is off the streets. 

“A week,” Jason repeats, deflating a little. Then he hesitates with something, as if concerned that he’s prying, before he says anyway, “Have you looked at renting a place? Even for a month? That money should get you a SRO local.” 

Tim’s shoulders hunch to mask his guilty wince. “I didn’t want to- I mean, I wouldn’t be able to afford it past the first month, and I didn’t want to go to all that trouble when I don’t have a steady income-” 

“Teddy, I’m happy to lend you the money,” Jason interrupts sternly, brow pinched. 

Tim reaches out and pats the hand Jason has curled on the tabletop, flushing when Jason flinches in surprise at the contact. He withdraws his hand and offers gently, “I know, and I’m grateful. But I can’t do that to you. You’ve been so generous already, and I don’t know how I could ever repay you-” 

“I don’t want you to repay me,” Jason says flatly. 

Tim shrugs sheepishly. “I still don’t feel comfortable taking that money off you. I’ll be fine. Once I earn enough, I’ll look into renting a place. Really, I’ll be fine.” 

Jason’s expression clears after a moment, before darkening with self-admonishment. “Christ, I almost forgot,” he mutters, and bends to yank his backpack up onto the seat. 

When he rummages through its contents, Tim catches sight of the folded cassock, and has to look back down into his coffee to avoid dredging up the heady reminder of Jason standing over him, strong and powerful, but so much different to the last time Tim had found himself beneath Jason. He swallows and massages the scar on his throat self-consciously as Jason unearths a stack of bills. 

Tim’s brow knots. “Jack, I can’t-” 

“It’s not mine,” Jason cuts him off, just a tad triumphant, and slides the wad towards him. “It’s a fifty percent cut of tonight’s earnings. It’s yours, fair and square. Yolanda asked me to pass it on to you.” 

Tim blinks at the bills on the table before him. “This is from tonight?” 

“From our performance, yeah, angel,” Jason replies with a crooked grin. Tim takes it gingerly and inspects it. 

“This has to be at least three grand.” 

Jason shrugs. “Sinful Sunday is popular amongst the regulars. I make a solid cut, and I don’t need that much money. And more _ importantly, _ I couldn’t have done it without you. I really enjoyed doing a routine with you, Teddy. And if you’d consider it, I’d like to do another one.” 

Tim swallows, panic fluttering in his gut. He’d thought tonight’s impromptu performance was a one-off deal. If he has to spend more time with Jason, he’s concerned he’ll be giving the man an even bigger glimpse into Tim’s cover, an even bigger chance to rip the mask away from him. He’s excited too, but Tim clamps down on that wayward emotion firmly. 

“I don’t know,” he says with a nervous laugh, “I don’t think I did all that much. I don’t think I could do another routine without some sort of training.” 

“Easy,” Jason answers immediately, nipping his dissent in the bud. “Yolanda runs pole classes on Tuesday mornings for the public. Beginner stuff. If you’re really worried about performing, it’ll give you a good foundation, and she’d be thrilled to have you there. But just know that I don’t need you to work a pole to perform with me, Teddy. I’ll work with you anyway.” 

“Work with me,” Tim repeats softly. His heart clenches at the thought of working with Jason again, working their covers, working this case together. 

Jason’s eyes meet his, and there’s a softness to their ocean-green depths that Tim hasn’t ever seen before. At least not aimed at him, or anyone in the family, really. Jason’s lips part, his tongue darting out to wet them, seeming to hesitate before he speaks again. His teeth are mostly straight, but one incisor is crooked, giving it a sharp pointed look that could be threatening if Jason weren’t being so gentle and sweet. His phone goes off in his pocket, startling them both, and the man’s large hands fumble it from his leather jacket. 

Before he can tilt the phone away from Tim’s gaze, the photo of a large black teddy bear on a poorly-made bed fills the screen, several Xs and Os in the message below it. Tim’s spine straightens, his badly brewed coffee doing nothing to defrost the chill of disappointment prickling in his chest. He averts his gaze, listening to Jason tap out a quick message in response, but he doesn’t miss the way the man’s cheeks light up in a pink flush. 

_ He has someone? _ Tim had no idea, hadn’t even fathomed that Jason could have someone else on the side, that he could have a regular life, a regular _ relationship _ with outside his vigilantism. That his kind and considerate doting on Teddy was just him being his usual compassionate self, and now Tim’s having to deal with a whole new set of problems - namely sauna-hot jealousy and embarrassment - over the stupidity of assuming that Jason could be feeling _ romantic _ towards his artfully constructed persona. 

And what does that say about how _ Tim’s _ been approaching these increasingly frequent _ not-_dates? How deep into this persona is he letting himself slide? How much has he let himself be distracted by Jason that he’d be sitting here, drinking coffee, and feeling _ jealous _ about a relationship that doesn’t exist and can’t ever exist. 

The disappointment is stark against the heat of his nearly-empty paper cup. Tim wants to smack his head on the damn tabletop, knock some sense into himself. He’s so _ disappointed _ in himself, compromising his case over a stupid not-romantic feeling that Jason isn’t even reciprocating. Sick to his stomach at the thought of how disappointed Bruce will be, when Tim comes running home with his tail tucked between his legs and a river full of victims he should have been able to save. Doesn’t save, because he was too busy daydreaming about something that doesn’t exist. 

Tim can’t live with that guilt over him. Can’t stomach the thought of failing again. But he doesn’t want to compromise this tentative truce he has with Jason, even if Jason’s not even aware it _ is _ a truce. 

“Yeah, sure, we can work together again,” Tim says in a moment of insanity. Because that’s what it is, his mouth running before his brain has a chance to catch up. Heart desperate for something imaginary and impossible, despite logic screaming him down from the rafters. Clinging to the barest possibility of getting to work this case with Jason, his Robin, his idol. 

Jason’s watching him with rapt attention, eyes aglow with interest. He’s worrying the inside of his cheek, but it doesn’t stop the curling up at the corners of his perfect mouth, his gaze dropping shyly as he runs a hand through his hair, tousling the white curls of his bangs amidst the darker ones. 

“I’d really like that, Teddy.” He looks back up at him again through his dark lashes, that sharp little inciscor dipping into his lower lip to reign that bashful grin into just a shy smile.

His phone buzzes again, and this time Tim catches the tail end of a text that definitely reads ‘_bought you some lube too xoxo_’. He flushes bright, averting his gaze to studiously drain the last of his cup. Jason goes beet red at the sight of the text, scowl blooming as he stabs at the keyboard in response. 

Tim decides he’s probably worn out his welcome; he doesn’t want to intrude on any more of Jason’s couple’s evening. 

“I’m- I’m gonna head home,” Tim bleats, shoving up out of the booth and nearly knocking his paper cup over. 

Jason hastens to his feet. “I’ll walk you home then, back to your motel.” When Tim blinks up at him, he reddens further and adds carefully, “Gotham’s not safe at this hour of the morning. Someone’ll roll you for that cash. Especially with the way I was flashing it around, sorry. It’s the least I can do. Please?” 

Tim flushes as well, lets the heat creep up the back of his neck and fry what sensibility his brain has remaining. “Uh, sure.” 

Jason reaches back to fish around for his wallet, plucking a strawberry-iced donut up and placing it between his lips. Tim has to swallow at the sight as Jason leafs through his bills for a tip, tucking it under the napkin dispenser before he glances up at Tim. He smiles around the donut, and Tim stifles a choked sound in his throat. 

He plucks it out of his mouth, licking off the residual icing as he starts towards the door. “Are we good to go?” 

Tim’s heart kicks back into a respectable, if haphazard, tempo as he ducks through the door he holds open. “Y-yeah, thanks.” 

It’s not a long walk back to the motel. Tim had booked out the nearest place with a semi-decent wifi service, within walking distance of the Daily O, in case he’d ever need to prove he had responsibly spent Jason’s money (which had, in fact, been donated to a charity that sheltered runaways and victims of domestic violence). 

Jason stays melded to Tim’s side the whole journey, sharp gaze intimidating the idling passersby who rake Tim with their gaze. No one approaches them, unsurprisingly, and Tim lets himself relax in the larger man’s presence. They don’t touch, except for the steadying hand Jason lays on Tim’s waist when he nearly rolls his ankle stepping off the sidewalk in his ridiculous heels. 

It keeps Tim’s pulse humming steadily in his ears as he counts down the room numbers, fishing for the key in his pocket. He fiddles with the uncooperative lock while Jason lingers in the walkway, scanning the faded curtains of the other rooms, and the eclectic collection of vehicles littered around the parking lot. Finally, with some incentive shouldering, the door swings free, and Tim beckons him inside. 

The way Jason's gaze takes in the interior, cataloguing every scuff on the skirting and spot of replaster on the walls, tells Tim he was entirely on the money with the snooping. He hangs back just enough on the threshold that it’s obvious he’s trying very hard not to just haul Teddy out and drag him back to his own home. The entire way over, Jason had been appraising the neighborhood with a critical eagle eye that only someone trained like them could. It’s not the worst area, but it’s definitely not the best; a happy medium for a city like Gotham. 

Tim crosses the carpet, ignoring how aware he is of Jason at his back, and drops down onto the bed with an exaggerated huff of exhaustion. Jason steps into the room after a moment, letting the door press closed behind him as Tim unbuckles his snow white heels and flexes his toes. 

“Thanks for walking me back,” he says firmly. Jason looks out of place in the doorway, nervous and jittery under the attention as Tim stands and shucks his trenchcoat, folding it over the back of the desk chair. 

Jason coughs very pointedly when he turns back around, fixing his gaze on the fine print of the warning label affixed to the radiator under the window. Tim tries not to feel self-conscious in just the black shorts and crop top, crossing to the kettle on the counter against the wall. 

“Can I get you a drink or anything?” he frets, swallowing down his own nervousness. He’s in a room, _ alone, _at night, with Jason. A motel room, in private - and Tim has no qualms about what that might look like to an onlooker. 

“No, no, I’m fine, I’m just gonna-” Jason rambles, swivelling to face him, and stills. Tim hesitates with the kettle in-hand, drinking in Jason’s expression as it morphs through embarrassment to confusion, to concern, and finally settles on _ fury. _ Tim grips the kettle with a bruising force, throat suddenly dry beneath Jason’s singular attention. 

Jason strides the short length of the room in the time it takes Tim to brace and shift the kettle, preparing to weather the first blow and respond in kind. Jason’s _ huge, _ up this close, and with that glint in his eyes - the _ exact same glint _ Tim’s had hovering over him before while the life was choked out of him - Tim finds himself freezing beneath that rage. 

When Jason’s palm circles his forearm, his touch is so unexpectedly soft that Tim’s brain stutters out for a minute. When he glances down, Jason’s burning gaze is fixed on a wayward bruise just below Tim’s wrist, stroking a slow thumb over it, entranced in his rage. 

Tim exhales a shaky breath, and Jason’s gaze snaps up to press what’s left of the air from Tim’s lungs. He looks earnest and riled, all that bubbling emotion underscored by a firm thread of apprehension. 

“Teddy,” he says, and the rawness in his tone make Tim’s knees knock. “Is this… is this another bruise?” 

Tim drags in a heavy, thick breath. A million things race to the tip of his tongue, vying for prominence: the fact that it’s just a bruise, just a small, insignificant bruise; the fact that it came from sparring with Damian, nothing as insidious as Jason presumes; the fact that Tim doesn’t _ deserve _ his concern, when he’s done nothing but lie to Jason’s face so far, and Jason’s responded with nothing but kindness. 

Tim’s head spins as he croaks, “Yes, but-” 

Jason moves, and Tim’s brain is too occupied with warning him that there is a six foot proven _ threat _ in his immediate vicinity that he stumbles in the larger man’s pull without resistance. Tim staggers until he can right himself, stopping short when Jason turns around. Tim glances down at the end of the bed beside them, and back up at Jason’s pinched expression. 

“I just- I need to talk to you,” Jason says gruffly, like he’s trying to school his tone with significant effort. “And I’m probably going to say some stuff you don’t want to hear, but you need to hear it, Teddy.” 

Then he sits down, his fingers loose around Tim’s wrist, and Tim sucks in a sharp breath. 

“Please sit down?” Jason encroaches, and Tim folds down to sit beside him, perched on the comforter. Jason releases him as soon as he does, gaze travelling over Tim’s bare calves and thighs, and the network of almost-healed bruises there as well. Then he holds Tim’s gaze tremulously and says, “I’m worried about you, Teddy. And I want to help you.” 

This needs to stop. Tim needs to put an end to this now. He can’t sit here and let Jason whip himself raw on his inability to save Teddy from an abuser that doesn’t even exist. Let Jason chastise himself over bruises that Tim acquired while doing what he _ chooses _ to do, running alongside Steph and Damian and Bruce every damn night. 

“It’s okay,” he rushes to interject, ignoring Jason’s admonishing scowl. “It’s not like that. They’re family, it’s not like that, honestly. It’s o-” 

“No,” Jason spits, and his hatred is so raw that it snaps Tim’s jaw shut at the sound. “Not, it’s not okay. It doesn’t matter _ who _ they are - lover, friend or- or family. No should _ ever _ lay hands on you like that, Teddy. It’s _ not _ okay.” 

This is spiralling rapidly beyond Tim’s control. Jason’s not backing down from his stance, so Tim tries to redirect to more manageable ground. 

“It was an accident. A one-time thing,” he says sincerely. Tries desperately to convey that to Jason through his gaze and his words alone. 

“I saw the scar on your neck,” Jason barks harshly, and Tim freezes at the reminder, at the image of Jason’s knife at his throat. “I know exactly the kind of anger it takes to make someone want to do that sort of thing - the kind of anger where you just want someone else to hurt, even if you regret it afterwards. I know the kind of dark place you have to be to leave a mark on someone like that. But that _ doesn’t _ excuse their actions, _ ever. _ It doesn’t matter what justifications they use; they hurt you, Teddy, and that’s never acceptable.” 

Tim feels dizzy with the realisation that Jason’s talking about his _ own scar_, his own actions, as if they’re unforgivable. As if they’re something for Tim to hold over him, to leverage against him. A moment of weakness on his part, _ exploited _ for Tim to use as a weapon. As if Tim doesn’t already know the effect the Pit had on his fragile state of mind. As if Tim hasn’t already _ forgiven _ him for what he did in those hours without lucidity and sanity. 

He clenches his hands in his lap, rage and grief spiralling through him as he opens his mouth to disagree- 

“I know what it’s like to be on the receiving end, too,” Jason says with a heave of air, and Tim freezes. 

Because Jason looks distinctly uncomfortable. He looks _ justified _ too, righteous in the victimhood he believes they share. Tim watches with horror as he reaches up to the joint of his neck and shoulder, smearing the make up and residual glitter there until his skin scrubs clean. Tim can make out the jagged white scar tissue painted over his skin, the distinct pattern of a revolving batarang seared into his flesh. 

“My- Dad gave me this, when he chose someone else over me, his own son.” Jason pauses, lost to a memory. Tim’s mind scrambles backwards through his archives of Bruce and Jason’s interactions, all the spit words and near misses, and can only pinpoint the altercation he hadn’t been privy to, in the early months of Jason’s return to Gotham - the one where Jason, Bruce and the Joker had walked into a building, and only Bruce and that maniac had walked back out. 

Tim’s heart swells into the top of his throat, thick and strangling as Jason lifts his gaze, lets it harden to steel. 

“So trust me when I say you have to leave them, Teddy. Because if not, they're gonna leave you, possibly for dead.” 

Tim’s next exhale is shaky, rattling through lungs that feel impossibly small. 

Jason hesitates, pulling his hand away from his neck before he tentatively touches Tim’s jaw, the calluses on his well worn fingertips scraping gently as they stroke the matching line in the tender, vulnerable skin of his throat. His hand lifts, fingers curling to cup Tim’s cheek, thumb stroking the underside of his chin in a soothing drag. Tim can’t breathe, gaze fixed on Jason’s own imploring stare, a reassuring smile playing softly on his chapped lips. Suddenly, the awareness of just how close they are sitting together becomes too much to ignore. 

“You’re too important to let someone treat you like that.” Jason’s voice is barely a whisper, rough and bordering on hoarse as his gaze flickers down to Tim’s throat, to his lips and back up again. 

Tim inhales the heat of Jason’s breath, hand lifting to grip his crooked elbow as Jason drinks in his expression, testing for an ounce of acceptance, of empathy. Then Tim dips forward and meet his lips, nose scraping the freckles along his cheek. 

Tim jerks back almost immediately, a bleat of regret in his throat as he remembers the teddy bear and the texts, and now he’s infringing on Jason’s _ relationship_, probably the only decent relationship he’s got left- 

Jason’s fingers twist over his cheekbone and yank him back down, holding him captive as Tim tastes the lingering strawberry icing on his lips. He groans, feeling his brow pinch even as he pulls back with a gasp, yanking Jason’s hand away by the grip he has on his elbow. 

Jason looks _ immediately _ contrite, an apology rushing to his lips, and Tim cuts him off with a, “I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have done that. You have a partner, and I shouldn’t have tried to-” 

“What?” 

“I’m so sorry.” 

“What the hell are you talking about?” Jason stutters out, and Tim swallows harshly. 

“Your texts,” he murmurs, waving a hand towards the pocket where Jason stashes his phone. “I saw- and the bear- and I shouldn’t have done that, I’m not usually like that, I just- I don’t have an excuse.” 

Jason blinks at him, stunned. “Teddy, I- I’m not in a relationship.” 

“But I saw texts-” he starts, and Jason cuts him off with little jolt of surprise. 

“That was my _ friend, _ playing a joke on me. I’m not- I don’t have a partner.” 

“Then who-?” 

“My friend, Roy,” Jason admits with a choked laugh, and Tim colors at the reminder of the rambunctious redhead. “He’s an asshole. He was just teasing me. There’s no one else, I promise. You didn’t do anything wrong. I’m not angry, I’m- I’m kind of relieved.” 

“Relieved,” Tim repeats, his brain stalling on the word. 

Jason blanches. “I mean, it doesn’t have to mean anything, if you don’t want it to. I just… I thought I was- that you…” He flounders, running harsh fingers back through his hair as he glances down. “Fuck, I’m fucking this all up. Sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to assume-” 

“Do you like me?” Tim breathes, and Jason stills, those depthless eyes flicking back up to meet him. 

“I… yeah,” Jason replies, deflating. “I thought I was being obvious. I-I didn’t want to pressure you into anything. But I don’t want you worrying about it.” 

Tim lifts a hand to brush over Jason’s scar, pulling him down to meet Tim when he kisses him again. It’s slow and smoldering, stoking the coals in the pit of Tim’s stomach. Jason doesn’t lift a hand to touch him, but Tim can feel the heat where their knees are pressed together like a branding iron. When he pulls back, Jason gives a soft exhale, lashes fluttering over his faint blush. 

“I’m not worried,” Tim promises, shifting against the thin mattress. He is hyper aware of how bare his legs are, how they rub together as he leans in close to the heat Jason’s large frame radiates. He lets out a soft sigh, eyelids wanting to droop and seal themselves closed just like he wants to seal his mouth to Jason’s again. The springs creak heavily, a rude awakening that seems to jolt them both from the heady daze that hangs between them. 

“I should go,” Jason says quietly, his fingers dug into the edge of the crappy comforter. Like he needs the reminder not to do anything further, to hold himself back from kissing Tim again. “I’ll see you at work, yeah?” 

Tim finds himself nodding stupidly, thoughts tripping to a halt. “Yeah. Thanks again for tonight. I’ll… see you?” 

Jason gets up, and hysterically, all Tim can think about is how Jason’s shadow falls over him where he’s seated on the squeaky mattress, just as it had fallen over him during that exquisite routine. Which morphs into the sudden and unbeckoned daydream of how he wants nothing more than to make it creak loud enough that his neighbors complain while he rides those glorious thighs again until he can’t feel his own anymore. 

Tim clears his throat, shoving to his feet before he can let that take root, and follow Jason to the door, leaning against the wood as Jason stalls on the threshold. 

“Goodnight Teddy.” Jason’s voice is low and warm as he hesitates, before leaning back into the room and pecking Tim’s cheek. He pulls away with hopeful grin as Tim tries to calm the nerves in his stomach. “Get some sleep.” 

He watches him retreat down the hallway, closing the door when Jason slips into the stairwell, leaving him alone. Tim latches the bolt and then the deadbolt, slumping back onto the mattress with a rough exhale. He feels a bit giddy, his blood hot in his veins as he grins up at the ceiling plaster. He kissed Jason Todd, _ Jason Todd. _ Better, Jason kissed _ him. _

Tim figures he might as well stay the night, just in case Jason feels the need to check on him. He tries to shove down the flutter of excitement at the prospect of Jason’s doting, and remind himself that he has a cover to maintain. A cover that Jason has proven himself prone to investigating. He should settle in for the night, maybe try to reduce some of his sleep debt before his next shift. 

Tim rolls back up to his feet, digging into his overnight duffel for something more comfortable than skintight shorts to sleep in, yanking out his laptop as he does. He’s too keyed up to write up case notes or run through the club’s CCTV footage now, but the reminder of surveillance equipment makes him pause. 

Tim lets his gaze travel the breadth of the motel room, drinking in the light fixtures that are bare of microphones, video cameras and the all-pervading recording equipment that permeates the Batcave. For the first time in what feels like months, Tim realises that he’s not under surveillance. 

He’s not the sentimental sort, but the realisation that he’s unfettered by his family’s unwavering penchant for snooping into his private life deserves a celebration. 

Tim digs out a pair of loose shorts and a t-shirt to sleep in, draping a towel over his shoulder as he heads into the ensuite. The shower runs hot for maybe twenty minutes, but that’s all the time he needs to take himself in hand, nails hitching into the old mortar and forehead pressed into the tile as he comes with Jason’s name on his lips. 

* * *

Art by **ride-the-dinos**. Please go send them some love over [here](https://ride-the-dinos.tumblr.com/ask)! Even if it's just a <3, please show them your appreciation. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song of the night is "Bedroom Hymns" by Florence + The Machine. 
> 
> Don't forget to check out the [Halloween Spinoff](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21251528) we posted last week!


	5. Hump Day

“It’s the mob,” Tim says as he effects a neat flamingo pose. 

“Are you saying that because you genuinely think it’s the mob,” Steph responds, spotting him as he pulls into a tight martini spin, “or because you want to wrap this case up so you don’t have to let Jason down cold turkey?” 

Tim shoots her a glare as he dismounts the pole, stepping back to let her run through the short routine. “I have evidence.” 

“How much evidence?” Steph asks, and grunts as she pulls into her own martini spin. 

“Enough,” Tim says sharply, and pouts under her raised brow as she settles into a hook and roll. Across the room, Yolanda calls a note of praise, and Steph throws her a beaming smile. “Some.” 

Cass gives an amused little huff of air, chalking her palms as she approaches. Tim glares at the vinyl mats, nails biting into his arms when he crosses them. 

“It’s not fair on Jason,” he bites. 

Steph snorts loudly, earning a scowl from him. “Which bit? The part where you’re leading him on by literally being your hot, twinky self, or the part where you’re actually getting a chance to interact with Jason without fearing for your life?” 

She dismounts, and Cass climbs fluidly around the metal. Tim glares at Steph as she adjusts her sports bra, huffing irritably. “He doesn’t know it’s me, really me. He’s just seeing Teddy, this persona I’ve constructed that I’m going to drop like it’s hot when I crack this case,” he insists sternly as Steph scoops up his water bottle and passes it to him deftly. 

“And I’m just getting distracted with-” Tim thinks of Jason’s nipple piercings, and that wicked gleam in his green-blue eyes, and his soft, unassuming smile. “-everything. I’m never going to get anywhere at this rate. I need to focus.” 

Steph nods conspiratorially as he takes a sip. “So what’s your evidence?” 

“I looked into Management,” Tim replies, and then considers, rolling his eyes towards the ceiling. “Well, no, I looked into the previous management; the club was taken over three months back.” 

Steph’s brows raise as she watched Cass twirl. “That’s awful soon for two of your employees to wind up in the harbour.” 

Tim nods. “Funnily enough, that’s what I thought.” 

“So what did you find, Hardy Boy?” 

Tim casts her a wry smile, but says, “Old management was just as rotten as the new management. I looked into their public relations, and it turns out the old owner was closely associated with the Falcones. Looks like new management thought it was a profitable option to keep trade negotiations open.” 

“Give it to me straight, doc.” 

“The Falcones moved in on the new kids as soon as the Daily O passed hands. They’re still laundering.” 

Steph tuts and shakes her head, and signals for Cass to keep practicing so they can talk. She pulls into a neat tuck without hesitation, rolling through the motions of their routine like they’re second nature. “They never learn. So what, mob drops a bunch of money on their doorstep with the trash every Friday night, servers run it through the till - presto, change-o, no more dirty cash in the mob’s pockets?” 

“Pretty much,” Tim admits. “I came into some of the money recently.” At Steph’s sharp eye, Tim waves her off. “One of the servers paid me to stay in your apartment; wouldn’t take no for an answer. He paid entirely in twos-” 

“Smart.” 

“-so I took the liberty of tracing one of the serials.” 

“And?” Steph prompts, taking a deep swig of water as she watches Cass move. 

“It’s fresh cash. Totally new prints. Serials don’t match up anywhere.” 

“Counterfeit?” Steph says with a lift of her brows. “Sounds a bit risky to pushing counterfeit bills through a strip joint, doesn’t it?” 

Tim shrugs. “They don’t stand out in a strip club. You walk in, cash in your Franklins and walk out with the change. Besides, no one’s depositing twos anywhere with counterfeit detectors. it’s low range, just a side operation. Just a way to push an extra grand into the system each week.” 

“And the main event?” 

Tim smirks, stepping forward to relieve Cass as she drops down from the pole lithely to join Steph on the mats. 

The answer is, of course, that the laundering was the main operation. 

Running Jason’s money gets him his first lead. He’d had the idea to scan their serials through the Batcomputer while he’d been fretting over Jason’s deleted file, and the results hadn’t disappointed. 

Because Tim had seen these bills before. Gotham’s a small pond, but not that small, and finding out the stacks Jason had been paid out in for his Sinful Sunday performance were the exact same that Red Robin and Batman had stumbled across during a Falcone drug bust not six months ago was enough to make Tim laugh. 

It’s the first solid piece of evidence he’s gotten from his investigation, and it makes some of the weight ease from Tim’s chest that accepting the money in the first place had put there. He still feels guilty, even though he’d more than repaid the amount into several charities as a result of putting this bundle into evidence. For the first time, Tim doesn’t feel like this entire investigation - going undercover as Teddy, keeping the truth from Jason - has been a total waste. If it’s what gives him - and Jason, he’ll find a way to slip him the information too - his first break, Tim will call that a success. 

The Falcones are using the club as their own personal laundering service, washing the bills from their drug trade through the legitimate business to avoid them being tagged by the cops - or the Bat. 

“Unlucky for them,” Tim says to Steph when they’re sitting on the mats, warming down as Yolanda runs through tips for her Tuesday morning class to improve their polework. 

Steph snorts, wrapping her hands under her knees and pointing her toes as she stretches out. “You know, I’m consistently amazed at how little the cops seem to want to do something about mobs in Gotham.” 

“Keeps us in a job.” 

“Have you checked out the local precinct?” she prods, and Tim shakes his head. 

“It’s on my radar. They’d have to be buying off more than a few to have them look the other way on this. A club this flush doesn’t just disappear from the books. Especially when they’re running _ legitimate._” 

“What do you mean?” Steph asks. 

Tim hitches his knee up, stretching out his hamstring. “It’s a legitimate club, from start to finish. Legitimately bought, legitimately registered. I checked their public liability insurance, their medical insurance scheme, everything. They’re legit. Squeaky clean.” 

“They’re laundering mob money,” Steph interjects sternly. 

Tim waves a hand dismissively. “Yeah, but they’re not doing it through a cover. Whatever deal they’ve got going with the mob, it’s mutual. They’re not mob owned or run. They’re doing this voluntarily.” 

Steph’s brow curls into a frown. “So what’s Management getting out of it?” 

Tim shrugs. “Don’t know yet. That’s what I’m looking to find out.” 

“They’d have to be getting something,” Steph reasons. “They just had two employees wash up. That’s guaranteed to bring some heat down on them.” 

“Not if the mob you’re dealing with has the cops in their back pocket,” Tim counters, Twinka’s words ringing in his head: _ The cops started poking around here for all of three minutes before writing it off as a mob hit. _

Steph’s gaze flies over him. “So are you going after the mob or the cops?” 

“Neither,” Tim answers. If the cops are so far embroiled in the operation that they’re willing to not overlook one but two gruesome homicides, Tim’s not going to be cutting the head off the hydra by singling them out. It’s as much a waste of his time as looking into the Falcones long and bloody history is going to be. The crime families in Gotham have been here almost as long as the elites, as the Drakes even. One botched operation isn’t going to be enough to put them out of business for good; and even if it is, another will just seep in to fill the power vacuum. 

Tim leans back on his palms, lifting his gaze to settle on Yolanda where she’s chatting with a middle-aged woman as the class filters out. “I’m going after Management.” 

Steph follows his line of sight. “You think she’s involved?” 

“I don’t know that she’s not involved,” Tim answers, despite how the words tug at his gut. He doesn’t _ think _ Yolanda’s involved in Domi or Zack’s murders, not with how much care he’s seen the drag queen pour heart and soul into the club. But Tim’s seen even people with the best intentions fall into bad situations with the mob. 

His instinct tells him he’s wrong. But Tim hasn’t been able to get a trustworthy reading off his gut since he laid eyes on Jason. The safest course is to trust the evidence. Be rational, be logical, and don’t trust anyone until he can _ prove _ they’re innocent. Or until he can pin down exactly who the fault rests with here. 

“So you’re going to look into Management.” 

Tim nods, pushing to his feet. Steph follows, accepting Cass’ outstretched hand to pull her up. “I’m going to go back to basics. Go as far back as the paper trail goes, and work my way forward. They’re involved with the mob. I just need to work out a motive, and I’ll find the evidence, I know it.” 

“And the victims?” 

Tim shoulders his duffel, zipping his water bottle into the bag. “I’m going to look them over again, see if either had any dealings with the Falcones.” Zack has a list of medical bills as long as Tim's arm, so he doesn't think it's a far stretch to assume he’s been getting some less-than-legitimate help affording his mother’s dialysis. 

“I thought you weren’t going after the mob.” 

“I’m not. But if they’re involved with the mob, I might be able to work out what role Management’s playing in it.” 

“You’re working up the chain,” Steph says, impressed. “Alright. I’ll keep an eye out on patrol, let you know if I hear any movement from the Falcones. Outside the usual, that is.” 

“Thanks,” Tim says as he holds the door open for her. “Can I buy you a coffee?” 

“Thought you’d never ask,” Steph simpers, and even Cass smiles at him as he falls into step behind them. 

* * *

There are two button eyes staring back at Jason when he wakes, along with a velveteen nose rubbing intimately against his own. Jason tried to be mad at Roy, but after a few days the bear had actually been a boon— it was the most comfortable body pillow he’d ever owned and he was sleeping much better for it. He snuggles into the giant, candy-scented bear and breathes softly for a while, letting the slats of sunlight beaming through the blinds creep over his bare legs. He dozes on and off, until the sun finally reaches high enough to get in his eyes, heralding the late afternoon that beckons him to the shower.

The toothpaste is out but after some digging he finds a travel sized tube of Colgate in the janky drawer he keeps his hairbrush in and definitely not his oral hygiene supplies. _ Roy must have been in here_, he rolls his eyes, squeezing out a dollop onto his toothbrush. He nearly chokes on it as he brushes, finally noticing the bottle of slick sitting next to the soap dispenser. Frowning, he knocks the bottle into the drawer and shuts it, grumbling. He’s still embarrassed even if he forgave Roy. The man had been moving the bottle around the apartment where Jason would eventually find it for days, like some sort of weird visual incentive to masturbate.

He hadn’t used it, not wanting to give Roy the point on the scoreboard out on the fridge right below the grocery list.

He turns on the shower, humming softly while he waits for the crappy water heater to kick in. He’d been on cloud nine when he came home from the coffee shop with Teddy. Logistics of a vigilante’s personal and work life be damned, _ Teddy had kissed him_. Even after confessing his feelings, the younger man hadn’t turned him down flat. Teddy hadn’t exactly said yes either, but his hands, warm and rough from manual labor had touched him so gently when they guided him into another meeting of lips.

Shaking himself like a dog, he steps under the lukewarm shower that’s steadily growing colder by the minute, scrubbing away the grime and with it the heat that had begun to seep into his limbs. He said he would see Teddy at work again and he had, but it had been too hectic to really do more than chat a few minutes here and there on breaks. Already smitten, Jason was steadily falling harder with each passing moment he spent in the waiter’s presence especially when the kid loosened up enough to let some of that Jersey sarcasm shine through his sweet exterior. It wasn’t as acidic as say, Twinka’s brand of insults, but definitely witty and just the right side of snarky without being condescending. 

The kid was also surprisingly smart, he’d had caught him helping some of the less fortunate servers navigate their health insurance policies and instructing them how to apply for government assistance which was a maze of bureaucratic walls designed to keep out the most needy. He was a good guy, just doing what he could for people in need and it made Jason’s heart dance like a hula girl on a dashboard.

Teddy had also been going home to his motel room like clockwork, ordering takeout for dinner and then turning in. Jason felt bad about following him home every morning, but he had to make sure he got home safely. It was always a dark tug of anxiety in his gut until the Teddy had taken his dinner from the delivery driver and locked his deadbolt for the final time of the night. Besides the lurking danger of an organ bandito at the club, Gotham city was looking meaner by the day, violent outbreaks occurring more and more frequently on the police scanner. Word on the street is a new drug making its way through the market, chewing through junkies like the worst kind of plague. There’s little information on it, and the form is hard to pin down. Whatever it is, it’s not a pill or needle, leaving Jason to assume it’s an inhalant or topical drug of some sort. There was obviously something going on, on a larger scale. 

Thoughts slither like snakes through the back of his mind as he dries off, arranging importance of tasks and obligations. His informants and enforcers are keeping things running, most of them former street kids like himself. Roy’s been helping out where the others can’t— he’s not sure how much longer this case is going to take, but he knows he can’t rely on Roy forever. 

Getting dressed doesn’t usually take long, since he doesn’t care what he looks like, and his real outfit will be waiting for him in wardrobe picked out personally by Yolanda. But since kissing Teddy he takes time to throw his clothes onto the bed and make sure nothing is too grungy or stained. If he’s only worn his two pairs of good jeans on rotation for the past few days, so sue him. Tonight he dons the acid wash ones and the vintage soft Poison Mind tee that’s one size too small and snug in all the right places, displaying the envious waist to shoulder ratio that some of the other dancers have told him they’d kill for. 

He doesn’t tell them that he literally had done just that.

Cooking something to eat before work is a wise idea, but when he heads to the kitchen he notices Roy is laying face down on his couch looking like a wrung out dishrag. He doesn’t look like he’s showered and has definitely lost a few pounds. The archer had always been on the gangly, scrawny side of the spectrum, so when he lost weight it showed horribly. Alarmed, Jason rounds the couch where Roy can’t see him do a quick scan of the coffee table and surrounding area for any needles.

There’s only a few empty cans of energy drinks and a half eaten hot pocket on a damp paper plate. Jason slowly exhales his relief.

“You can just ask me you know.” Roy’s voice is muffled into the cushion, and he slowly pushes himself up though he looks as though he’d rather just suffocate.

“You okay?” Jason sits down on the arm of the couch near Roy’s head, crunching one of the empty cans in his fist for the recycling bin. 

“Nrgh.” Roy flops down onto his back, flicking his gaze to his cellphone, face down on the table. “She keeps texting me about Dick. Like... I’m trying to be a supportive friend and all because I care about her, but man I really want to punch him in the dick.”

Jason raises a brow. "I thought you and Dickie were friends. Or, more than friends, from what I heard." 

“Eh, Dick was curious and I was the only redheaded slut within arm's reach, more like,” Roy grunts noncommittally, shuffling away from his cell, so Jason changes tactics. 

“Have you called her?” 

“Nope.” Roy shakes his head. “I can’t, I literally can’t. Jay, I will ugly cry if I hear her voice.”

“Aw buddy.” Jason raises the other brow and strokes Roy’s long red locks. They are stringy, unkempt and unwashed. “Hey, go get showered. I’m taking you to work for some free drinks.”

Roy perks a little at the mention of free and drinks, though Jason doubts that sad glint in his eye is going to go away anytime soon. He ruffles his greasy hair playfully and shoos him off, waiting until he hears the shower start.

“You better use that bottle of lube before we go, or you’ll regret it!” 

* * *

Roy looks quite regretful now, awkwardly hunching his shoulders to yank his flannel shirt over his bulging crotch discreetly. His eyes dart around, unsure where to look, because there’s so much ass in view.

“You work… at a strip club,” Roy breathes.

“Yup.” Jason hooks an ankle around the nearest stool, pulling up at the bar while Charla hunts down a bottle of good whiskey. 

“Why the hell didn’t you tell me?!” Roy whines, saddling up on a stool when Charla taps a highball glass with a perfectly round, clear ball of ice on the counter for him. He lights up at the choice of whiskey, purring. “Is that—” 

“On the house just for you, Redhot.” She winks. “Somebody told me you liked this one.”

Roy hefts an arm over Jason’s shoulders, bumping their heads together. “You ludicrous bastard,” Roy sniggers. “How much do they pay you to bounce here?”

“Bounce?” Charla asks, catching the way Jason makes an aborted headshake. “Oh, they pay okay. Besides, it’s the view he stays for.” She smiles secretively, pouring another for the redhead when he finishes the first glass, distracting him as Jason slips off to wardrobe. Some of the servers are already flirting with him, eager to impress the friend of a dancer. Jason rolls his eyes good-naturedly at Charla as Roy soaks up attention like a sponge. The house is barely full tonight, but Wednesdays are usually slower than the rest of the week. It doesn’t help that it’s the middle of the month and everyone in this end of the city is broke.

“I gotta go clock in. _ Behave,_” Jason tells Roy, pointing at his eyes and then at Roy’s. 

“Sure, sure.” Roy doesn’t take his eyes off the bare thighs of one of the servers who’s idly leaning on the bar next to him with a sweet smile and a cocked hip. “I’ll behave.” 

He wasn’t going to, but he wouldn’t be Roy if he did.

Jason had fretted on the way over, but now he’s pretty sure it’s going to be fine judging from Roy’s reaction. A plan is slowly forming, and he lights up when he sees Tommy tugging on a pair of cut-off jean shorts that are a half-inch shy of daisy dukes. The other man has a cowboy theme for his spotlight show tonight, a bolo tie cinched against his tanned throat, and a dark brown rancher’s hat firmly planted over his crown. The blonde grunts a greeting at him as he buttons the shorts before sitting down to tug a pair of boots on with matching spotted cowhide sides. Jason crosses to his vanity and stows his backpack. 

“Hey Nebraska, you mind doing me a favor tonight?” He finds his own costume hanging up next to his dressing table; a black tank top with a low v-neck and a pair of near skin-tight booty shorts to match. Yolanda has obviously not finished putting it together yet, but he spies a slouch cowboy hat with a tie string and Jason gets a wicked idea to match his friend’s western look. 

“Hm? Sure.” Tommy stomps his feet into the boots, flexing his ankles to admire the glint down the polished leather.

“My buddy is here tonight. Had a rough break up recently so I’m treating him to a good time. You think you could give him a lap dance after your set?” 

Jason snatches the hat, adjusting the neck string so that it’s loose enough to let it hang against his shoulders when he slips it over his head. Tommy looks up, beaming in a way that only midwesterners are capable of. 

“No problem! Just give me a signal to point him out when I get on the floor.” He stretches as he stands, pulling out the muscles of his shoulders in a light warm up. Tommy winks. “Is he cute?” 

“He’s my bud, so I don’t really see him like that. You can decide for yourself though.” 

Tommy doesn’t look convinced, arching a brow into his styled blonde curls. “Keepaway. Is he hot then?” 

Jason snorts and undoes his fly, shucking his pants down his hips as he reaches for the booty shorts. “Yeah, sure, he’s hot. Works out. Good shoulder muscle,” Jason adds, just to see the flare of intrigue in Tommy’s gaze. 

“You don’t say,” he replies, and bends to dig around in one of his drawers for some lip gloss. “Well, I’ll do my best. I always keep my word.” 

* * *

Jason never had much trouble sneaking up on anyone, but Roy isn’t just anyone. He tips his hat forward to shadow his face and creeps around the booths, artfully dodging the servers that barrel down the aisles. Charla’s gone balls out with the drink orders for him; Roy’s table is lined with an array of shots and specials, with a bucket of ice chilling a few longnecks in easy reach. Roy’s already put two of the bottles out of their misery, their empty carcasses pushed to the end of the table for easy cleanup. Jason waits till he sees the archer pluck a fireball shot and toss it back before he rounds his table to face him. 

Roy chokes, hacking his lungs up, slamming the shot glass onto the table. Jason grins so wide his cheeks hurt, his revenge over the lube bottle complete. He’ll add the mark on the scoreboard later. He flicks the brim of his hat up, while he plants one hand on his hip to pose saucily.

Roy’s gaze drags up the length of him, snagging on the peek of midriff and the roll of his shoulders beneath the thin material of the tank top. Jason laughs when Roy reaches his face, jaw a little slack and still dripping with cinnamon flavored liquor. “Okay. Interesting uniform.” 

“Yeah, so I lied,” Jason answers with a shit eating grin, and reaches out a palm to shove Roy back against his chair. Roy concedes with a breathless grunt and Jason doesn’t waste any time straddling his lap, draping his crooked wrists over Roy’s shoulders. They really are nice shoulders, years of bowstring pulling making them broad and sturdy; Tommy’s gonna love ‘em. 

“So, this is what you do when you’re undercover,” Roy says after a stunned moment, and curls a finger into the holster strapped tight to Jason’s thigh. “I gotta get in on this shit more often then.” 

“This isn’t the regular,” Jason replies, and presses Roy’s palm to the strap when he goes to pull away, flushing as if he’s just realised he’s very obviously groping Jason’s muscles. Jason leans down to purr in his ear, “They’re there for you to hold onto, darlin’.” 

Roy makes a half-laugh, half-choked sound, and meets Jason’s gaze with coy mischief, yanking him deeper into his lap. Jason grins, shimmying against his spread legs. “How much for the whole night?” 

“Lap dances are half price,” Jason answers without flinching. “So lucky for you, you can have me for the whole next performance if you cough up.” 

“You say that like I don’t live on Ollie’s dime, baby,” Roy teases with a flash of incisors, and then pauses. “Wait, did you say performance?” 

Jason hums and nods, jerking his head to the stage behind them. “Should be lights up in a few minutes. Tommy Bahama, just for your viewing pleasure.” 

As he says it, the lights fade behind him, dropping to a purple pinpoint as the deep drawl of _ Old Town Road _ spills over the stage. It’s underscored by a guttural bassline, and it takes Jason a moment to place it as a mashup of the ultimate Hump Day anthem, _ Pony_. 

“What? _ What? _” Roy demands in his ear as Jason curls over him with a laugh that’s muffled by the throbbing music. He doesn’t need to explain, because Roy’s hazel gaze lifts in the next moment to the stage when the curtains part, and Jason curls his chin over his shoulder to watch Tommy’s entrance. 

There’s honestly no one in this place who knows how to use their hips better than Tommy. The roll of his lean abdomen is goddamn mesmerising, framed by that vest. He winks at the crowd as he all but prances around the mechanical bull the stage hands have lugged up to center stage, the taxidermied head menacing with two great big and very sharp horns aimed at the audience. The song lets loose a full bass bomb to the sweeping lyrics of “_If you’re horny-_” and the bull leaps to life, bucking in swoops and spins that seem just on this side of too fast. If Jason hadn’t seen the act already, he’d have been worried.

Roy’s fingers clench involuntarily on his thighs, the leather holsters creaking beneath his grip as Tommy mounts the spinning monstrosity. He snags the bull by the horns and kicks his legs up over the hulking shoulders, settling into the miniscule saddle stitched into the hide. He squeezes the bucking beast tight between his legs, lifting both hands above his head as he rolls his upper body in the opposite direction as the bull’s rotations, a display of impressive balance and strength. Jason laughs, lifting up off Roy’s lap when the redhead makes an aborted thrust.

“Holy fuck,_ holy fuck_,” Roy breathes as Tommy writhes on the bull. Blushing, he mutters an apology under his breath for the faux pas, hands resting in more neutral territory on Jason’s waist. “Jesus.” 

Jason chuckles, sliding off his lap to sit on the table instead, letting Roy enjoy the view of Tommy all but humping on stage. Jason knows the exact moment Tommy turns backwards on the bull and mimics getting fucked because Roy reaches down to adjust himself and lets his hand hover there, nibbling his lower lip.

“Better save that for somewhere a little more secluded, bud. And perhaps wait for company to join,” Jason reminds him, plopping his hat over Roy’s crotch. The archer holds it there, looking a little relieved. “Don’t jizz in that, the props aren’t mine.” 

Roy tosses him a half-chastising, half-desperate glower, and Jason snickers. The song is winding down, and the bull finally grinds to a halt to allow Tommy to dismount safely. He’d stripped throughout the routine, somehow managing to get his shorts off, revealing taut bikini briefs with _ Ride Me _bedazzled across the rear in sparkling rhinestones. Roy moans, eyes snapping from Jason to Tommy.

“Really? I get all that?”

Jay kicks him lightly, snickering as a server comes up to clear the table of the empties Roy’s steadily built up. Roy, being Roy, throws charm at the server, flirting back and forth. Jason relaxes minutely, glad that his friend is cheered up once more. 

Tommy stoops to snatch up his discarded vest, since the stage hands are too busy picking up cash and moving the bull offstage behind the curtains. Suddenly, he falters, cheeks flushed darkly with a tinge of green around the edges. Jason can see he looks a little dazed, unsteady on his feet as he straightens and all but rushes backstage, swallowed up by the black curtain. 

Jason frowns, tapping Roy twice on the shoulder to get his attention. “I’ll be back, just want to check on someone.” 

“Sure thing,” Roy says easily, and turns back to the server with a charming smile. 

He hustles across the showfloor, ducking down the stairs into the Pit in time to the muffled thrum of Tommy’s transition song. It’s some Lady Gaga hit, something about high heels and a bar that Jason can’t quite make out beneath the distortion. 

The dressing room is the first place he checks, but it’s mostly empty except for a few remaining stage hands; most of the dancers are up on the floor, working to pay the rent. Tommy should be up there with him before his next, but the sight of him, looking so nauseous… 

Jason cuts across the room at a brisk pace, stepping into wardrobe and glancing between the abandoned racks. It could be a ghost town for all he sees of another soul. There is one hand though, balancing a precarious stack of discarded cowboy hats as he meanders around a pile of laundry. 

“Hey,” Jason calls, jogging to him, and the man seems a little surprised at being addressed, his forehead pinching in a preemptive scowl. “Have you seen Tommy?” 

The stage hand crooks an incredulous brow, jostling the tower of hats in his arms. “Do I look like I’ve seen him? We don’t keep tabs on all of you, you know. That’s not our job. But if you do see him, tell him he’s back on stage in a few minutes. God knows he’s never where he needs to be.” 

Jason watches him go with a slow shake of his head. Talk about carrying a high school grudge; he wouldn’t be surprised if all of the production crew have a chip on their shoulder about the dancers in this joint. It can’t be easy watching the embodiment of their teenage wet dreams lap up the attention every night, and be relegated to doing legwork from the shadows. 

It’s still not an excuse to treat someone as kind as Tommy like crap. 

When Jason doubles back for the dressing room, Tommy is at his dresser, looking perkier than he did a minute ago. He’s brushing rouge across his cheeks, but he beams at Jason’s arrival, looking a tad surprised. 

“Hey Jersey.” 

Jason scowls. “Where were you?” 

Tommy blinks, his smile sliding briefly before returning full force. “I’ve been here-” 

“I just came through here, where were you?” Jason demands, and Tommy looks a tiny bit panicked at his ferocity. Jason tries to lower his hackles, pull himself out of the stance he reserves for intimidating Johns and shithead pimps. “Sorry, I was worried. I wanted to check on you. You looked unwell.” 

Tommy flashes that million dollar smile again, but it’s not enough to mask his look of unease. “I’m fine, promise.” When he sees Jason’s not backing down, he sighs, rolls his eyes with a hint too much exaggeration and says, “You had a friend you wanted to show me. Wanted me to give him the lap dance of his life, right?” 

Jason forces himself to unwind, answering after a beat of hesitation, “Yeah. Yeah, his name’s Roy. He’s out front.” 

“Oh,” Tommy chirps, his baby blues brightening. “The one you were working on earlier? The redhead?” 

“That’s the one,” Jason agrees, and Tommy packs his make up away with a hum. 

“Not my usual type, but I’ll give him a shot. What’s he like in bed?” 

Jason chokes on his spit, and Tommy cackles at his sudden break in composure, laying a hand on his cheek. 

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding. Lap dance only. Unless he says otherwise. But I’ll get his number for that.” Tommy winks at him. “No fraternizing on club grounds, right?” 

“Whatever, man,” Jason says mournfully, and then a thought occurs to him. He scowls darkly. “If you two do end up going home, for whatever reason, take it back to yours. He’s staying with me while he’s in town, and I need my beauty sleep.” 

Tommy blows him a sweet kiss, starting for the stairs back up to the showfloor. “Sure thing, Jersey.” 

“Watch it, Nebraska!” 

* * *

Jason finds Teddy at one of the serving stations littered throughout the club, resting up as he retrieves supplies to avoid the crowd at the bar. With Roy otherwise occupied, Jason wants to give Teddy a bit of space to recuperate in a way that he doesn’t feel like he’s being smothered. He stares at the kid for a moment, the club lights setting his pale skin aglow. It takes him several long, lovesick moments to realize the server is wearing something familiar.

It’s a teddy lingerie again, black as night and lacy as usual but the garment is sinfully low-cut at the front. The daring dip of the V-line answers any question Jason might have had about Teddy’s grooming habits; he’s as bare as his namesake. Jason’s eyes wander that delta of flesh, throat gone dry as he idly wonders how soft it would feel to touch. Yolanda has practically giftwrapped the boy tonight, one bright red satin bow tied around his slender waist while another one is artfully decorating the hollow of his slender throat. 

He looks like his bear come to life, and Jason can practically see Teddy’s skin painted in kisses and doused in a flush of bliss against his bedsheets-

“Jack?” Teddy interrupts him, jolting him right out of his daydream as he calls across the distance. He feels like a creep when he meets Teddy’s earnest gaze, so happy to see him. If the server knew what he’d been thinking, he’s not so sure he’d be a welcome sight. 

Jason hunches his shoulders, rolling forwards and coughing a little to hide the nervous squeak in his voice as he answers, “Yeah?” 

He ambles up to him, hoping to high hopes he’s not projecting his thoughts to the room. He never mastered schooling his expression quite as well as Bruce would have liked. 

“Everything okay?” Teddy glances at the stage, where Tommy’s pole routine is finally starting. The man looks much better, freshly powdered and beaming brightly at the audience from halfway up to the ceiling. “I saw you head backstage after him. Thought something might have been up; is he alright?” 

“Yeah, I think so.” Jason watches Tommy twist seductively around the pole, a sly smile making its way over his lips when he realizes Tommy is practically dancing for Roy’s table alone. The redhead is eating it up, whistling like a wolf and slamming shots like there’s not going to be a tomorrow morning hanging his head in a toilet. “Must have just been all that spinning, made him dizzy I guess.” 

Jason’s honestly not entirely convinced by the man’s assurances; for now he’ll be sure to keep a closer eye on the other dancer. He’s let his friendly midwestern neighbor get too close, making him blind to the fact that anyone in this building could be a killer. 

Teddy shifts closer to him, close enough that Jason can almost touch him. Even though his instincts are screaming danger, he angles himself towards the server, bowing over him in a protective loom. For his part, Teddy doesn’t seem to mind, watching the stage with a distant look in his eye. 

“Hey, when the fuck am I gonna get a drink in this shithole?!” a patron a few tables over - and definitely not in Teddy’s section - snaps his fingers at them impatiently. “Lazy ass little bitch, you should be glad I came to this dump! Now get your ass over here and take my order.” 

Teddy startles, head swiveling in the customer’s direction as if he can’t believe this is happening. He glances around, no doubt searching for whichever server is neglecting their section, and Jason lets his lips curl back in disgust. 

“Are you _ deaf_?” the man insists with vicious incredulity, and beckons sharply. “While we’re young.” 

Jason hardly thinks that assessment applies to this greasy old bastard, but when he straightens to address the issue, Teddy lays a steadying hand over his abdomen, pressing him back gently by firmly. 

“It’s fine, I’ve got it,” he says quickly, and snags his tray and notebook from behind Jason, sashaying over to the table. Jason can just make out the, “What can I do for you gentlemen this evening?” around his belligerent smile. 

The asshole seems to be appeased, snapping his drink orders before waving Teddy away. It’s boomer-behavior gone bad, but the waiter doesn’t seem to let it bother him, fetching the order promptly. When he returns Jason thinks he might have to break the man’s hand because it’s aiming a slap at Teddy’s tush. 

Teddy stabs the wedge of his heel into the man’s toes before the man can even think of swinging his sweaty palm. Bypassing his yowl, he bends to slide the two Horny Bulls across the table. The man’s gazes flickers down to the grind of his heel and back up with shrinking realisation as Teddy beams at him and asks, “Anything else I can get for you?” 

“No,” he mumbles, mollified. 

Teddy’s smile hitches up almost high enough to reach the burning intensity of his eyes. “I’ll let your server know then. Have a lovely evening, _ gentlemen._” 

_Down boy_, Jason reprimands his heart, fluttering dreamily against his ribcage at the display of Gotham spunk, thoroughly impressed. Smart, sassy, and sexy to boot, he can’t believe Teddy lets him stand next to him at all. Whoever was hurting him must have really been someone pretty damn scary. He hopes to high heaven that Teddy is finally out of their reach because if not Red Hood is going to have to make a pitstop and empty out the magazine of his favourite pistol.

He tries to wipe the dopey grin off his face when Teddy returns, but isn’t quite successful.

“They should pay you to step on people more often,” he says, but he thinks, _ I want you to step on me. _If only to remind himself not to be so distracted. 

Teddy tilts his head with a small smile, tipping his perfectly glossed lips, lashes dipping against his cheeks as he looks down at his shoes to inspect them for any soiling the asshole’s shoe might have left. Jason’s gaze follows and without his permission, his hand is trailing the backs of his knuckles over the bared curved of Teddy’s pale thigh.

_ Soft_, his dumb lizard brain supplies before the rational, human part of his brain slugs him with solid panic and he jerks his hand away and balls it into a fist. “Sorry-!” He sucks in a breath tightly, eyes dancing as heat burns his face. _ Stupid, fucking idiot! _

Teddy hasn’t moved, staring at him with his lips parted. The kid looks surprised, but he doesn’t move to get away from him like a sane person would. Jason rubs his face, willing himself to get it together. Thinking the kid is attractive, being attracted is all well and good but touching him without so much as asking please is un-fucking-acceptable. He needs to apologize again, sincerely, and tell him he won’t do it ever-

_ Why isn’t he yelling at me? _ Jason stares, watching Teddy meet him face on. Slowly the bright blue irises thin, limpid eyes imploring him. Jason’s heart ratchets up as the kid tilts closer, body language open and vulnerable. Jason’s training logs each minute detail helpfully; parted lips, flushed cheeks, pupils rapidly dilating in ( _ dare he hope _) arousal, body shifting unconsciously close enough that Jason can smell the fresh scent of his shampoo.

Teddy’s lashes start to flutter closed as the kid leans forward.

A server bursts between them, snatching up a handful of straw stirrers, apologizing. Both he and Teddy go ramrod straight, awareness flooding them about exactly where they are and what they were just about to do. Jason moves back to let the harried employee get what they need, biting his lower lip as he looks over their head at Teddy. The kid looks just as chastised as he feels, shyly averting his gaze. When they are alone again, Jason clears his throat, reaching out to take Teddy’s wrist. He runs a thumb over the soft velvet of the skin on the inside of his wrist, tugging gently.

“C’mon,” he croaks, leading the kid away from the bustle and towards Roy’s table. If Roy is there he could keep him grounded enough to not do something stupid again like try and kiss the kid on the fucking showfloor.

Tommy is hip deep in Roy’s lap, gyrating slowly with his mouth against the redhead’s ear, both having a jolly old time. Jason colors, because Tommy is most certainly letting Roy hump him and the blond doesn’t seem to mind one little bit. That probably means Roy won’t be home being a lazy lump on his couch tonight, at least. He vehemently shoves the idea of inviting Teddy home with him and burying his head between those gorgeous legs into a shredder. There’s no way he’s going to do that, especially to someone who’s been hurt like this kid has. He deserves a proper relationship, one with romantic dates and walking hand in hand with someone who isn’t being shot at on a nightly basis. Someone who _ hasn’t _ given up his own life to save Gotham from eating itself alive.

“Ahem.” He clears his throat, catching Tommy’s eye. “Teddy, this is my friend Roy. The one who sent me the gag text.”

Roy is mid-thrust when he realizes Jay is behind him, cursing under his breath. “Fuck, I am putting a bell on you.” Tommy laughs, shifting against the archer’s lap, greeting Jason and Teddy with a little flap of his hand.

“Hey you, y’didn’t tell me Roy here was packing.” Tommy bats his lashes at Roy, waggling his eyebrows. Roy cracks up.

“He didn’t tell me you were a real bull rider either! I was pretty impressed.” Roy’s hat has come off somewhere along the way, his long red hair riotous and wild from Tommy’s strong hands rifling through it.

Jason shakes his head, pursing his lips to keep from smirking at them. 

“You're getting along, I see.” 

“Oh yeah, we’re getting along just fine.” Roy turns halfway, arching a questioning brow at Jay when he notices Teddy beside him. “Who’s this?”

“Roy, this is Teddy. Teddy, Roy.” Jason suddenly wonders why he thought this was a good idea. As if the moment couldn’t get anymore awkward, the song begins to fade out and Prince’s _ As Doves Cry _begins to thrum over the sound system. Roy’s lips split into a shit eating grin, waving at Teddy - but his eyes are all for Jason.

“Hey, I’m Roy. Nice to meetcha, kid!” 

The croak that comes out of Teddy’s throat is barely audible, a choked little, “Hi… Roy.” 

“Roy and I go way back,” Jason informs him with half a smirk, trying to ease the obviously nervous man. “He’s been my accomplice for years.” 

Tommy’s eyes light up, grin curling his lips. “Accomplice, hmm?” 

“Yeah, baby,” Roy teases with a ridiculous waggle of his eyebrows, “you’re in love with a criminal.” 

“Love that song,” Tommy purrs, and groans when Roy palms his ass through his shorts. 

Teddy makes a little despairing noise, shrinking besides Jason, who rushes to salvage the situation. 

“_Roy,_” he grits out, brows lifting when the redhead looks at him dumbly. Roy’s gaze slides to fall on Teddy, his teeth showing in his smile as he settles deeper in his seat. 

“Jay’s told me heaps about you,” Roy says fondly, and Jason’s blood runs cold at the slip. 

“Jay?” Tommy interjects, and Roy’s brow creases. 

“A nickname,” Jason hastens to correct, meeting Roy’s suddenly sharp gaze. “Jay, Jack. You know what I mean, Nebraska?” 

“Oh,” Tommy says, not sounding wholly convinced, but willing to let it slide in favour of grinding surreptitiously into Roy’s lap again. “I guess I’m just so used to hearing your stage name around here, you know? You forget people have other names.” 

“Wait, Tommy’s not your real name?” Roy demands, looking vaguely scandalised. 

Tommy snorts. “Not Tommy Bahama, no. But Thomas Miller, yes. So I go by Tommy both ways anyway. You can call me whatever you like, though,” he adds coyly, and Jason tries not to blush on Roy’s behalf. 

Roy deflects by nodding at Teddy, and all of their gazes follow. “You got a stage name, Teddy?” 

“Teddy is my stage name,” the smaller man croaks. “Teddy Bare.” 

Roy snorts, but Tommy just smiles and cocks his head. “So what’s your real name, Teddy? Edward? Or something else?” 

“Uh, Theodore,” Teddy admits, shuffling anxiously. It strikes Jason just how much he doesn’t look like a Theodore, how hesitant it sounds on his lips. The name’s too stuffy, too uppity for a sweetheart like him. _ Maybe it’s a fake name, _ Jason muses, and winces at the thought that Teddy would have to hide his identity here. _ Probably to stop some shithead ex from tracking him back to his workplace. _

Tommy pats him fondly on his bared hip. “Teddy definitely suits you more.” Then he frowns and presses the back of his palm against Teddy’s palm. “Gosh, Teddy, are you warm or is it me?” 

Teddy frets, cheeks bright and rosy, now that Jason’s attention is drawn to them. He looks flushed and warm, pinned beneath their concern. Jason can see a blush travelling across his cheekbones and down to the dip of his sternum. He keeps his bashful gaze on his shoes, shuffling on the spot as he massages the tendons of his throat. 

“Are you okay?” Jason entreats with a pinch of his brow, and Teddy's rosiness darkens. 

“I’m… not feeling too well, actually,” he squeaks back, and Jason notes the sweat beading on his temple. He lifts the back of a palm to Teddy’s forehead, and sure enough the man is positively toasty. “Maybe I’m getting sick.” 

Jason’s brow pinches with concern, but it’s Tommy who leans back from Roy’s chest with a firm, “If you’re not feeling well, you should go home, Teddy Bare.” 

Teddy squirms, offering a pale smile. “Oh, I don’t want to make a fuss-” 

Tommy shakes his head vehemently, fingers tangling into the hair at the back of Roy’s neck. The movement makes Roy visibly melt, the archer pressing his lips against Tommy’s temple. “Management has a pretty clear policy about us not contaminating the place. Same as Yolanda. Neither of them like us being here if we’re feeling under the weather. She’ll send you home right away if you go find her.” 

“I probably should tell Twinka,” Teddy admits hesitantly. “He’s technically my supervisor. But I haven’t seen him all night; I think he took the evening off…” 

When Teddy frets and casts both Roy and Jason a surreptitious glance under the guise of sweeping the floor for the server, Tommy reaches out a hand to pat his hip consolingly. 

“Seriously, go tell Landa you’re not feeling well. She’ll get you sorted. You’ll feel right as rain in no time.” Tommy flashes him a beaming smile, and Teddy nods reluctantly. 

“Okay,” he concedes, and casts both men a last minute smile. “Bye, Jack. It was nice to meet you, Roy!” 

Jason’s fingers twitch, wanting to reach out to him, bundle him up and carry him home. To get sick so suddenly, it’s probably something malignant like a flu and Jason can’t help but worry. Mentally he punches himself; no wonder the kid looked so dazed and flushed. He was sick, and here he was trying to cop a feel in the middle of the goddamn club like a pervert.

“He’s cute.” Roy mentions, content to lounge with Tommy over his lap.

_ Yeah, that’s the problem, _Jason thinks. 

* * *

Gotham’s chill never fails to clear Tim’s head, even when it’s spinning like it is now. 

He has no clue how he managed to slip past not only Jason, but Roy Harper as well. Apparently his luck is holding though - or maybe he should invest in more makeup - because neither of Gotham’s vigilantes had recognised him in his tiny teddy lingerie. 

Tim fires a quick prayer off to whichever guardian angel spared him from the mortification of the _ Outlaws _ recognising him in barely-there lingerie as he scales to the rooftop of an apartment building. He’d stripped out of the offending outfit the instant he’d been clear of the Daily O, stuffing the incriminating evidence deep into his backpack as he’d high-tailed it to Steph’s. 

She’s out on patrol with Damian, as expected, so Tim cools down with a quick shower and pulls on his Red Robin duds. There’s no point wasting a good night cooped up at home; his investigation hasn’t gotten him any further, and Tim figures he’s already neglected his usual route enough over the past two weeks. 

His patrol takes him along the outskirts of the Narrows, where the borders of his and Jason’s territories intertwine. Tim cuts across the cemetery, weaving past rows and rows of neat headstones. He can barely see his own feet in the gloom, breathing steady as he sprints through, eyes on the curve of the Gotham skyline beyond the iron gates, searching for a suitable grapnel point. 

He doesn’t see the figure until he’s nearly on top of them, and wrenches himself aside to avoid stumbling over them in the dark, staggering off course. They’re sitting on what looks to be a fairly recently filled grave; Tim can see the toil of freshly dug soil, the shoots of a few more persistent weeds filtering through when he doubles back. 

They’re curled up, facing the headstone, though Tim can’t make out the lettering in the pitch. He can barely discern their form in the darkness, but as his lenses adjust he can see their knees are pressed to their chest, arms wrapped around the limbs with a vice like grip. 

It’s nearly midnight, closer to sunrise than sunset at this point, and they look to be alone in the empty cemetery. Tim hesitates, idling beside the grave. “Are you okay?” he entreats after a moment, but the figure doesn’t acknowledge him. 

It’s not unusual for people to stumble into the cemetery after a night on the town. It’s unfortunately nestled between some of Gotham’s cheaper nightclubs, so it wouldn’t be the first time Tim’s helped out someone inebriated or high who’d thought to lay out on the cool grass and not noticed the tombstones. 

This guy looks reasonably well-put together though. Tim can see the collar of a pressed dress shirt, shoots of styled hair curling from his exposed neck. The man - at least, Tim thinks it’s a man, small though he may be - doesn’t look drunk. There’s even a handful of trampled flowers discarded at the foot of the headstone, and when Tim glances down to the man’s shoes, he can see the scuff of stone against the polish. 

Tim swallows, edges close enough to almost brush the man’s shoulder tentatively. It’s sheer dumb luck that he glances at the headstone as he does, and with the vague light of a passing car across the street to guide him, Tim can just make out the engraving for _ Dominik Nowak. _

Ice floods his stomach, swelling into the back of Tim’s throat as he glances down at the man at his feet, the lean limbs and unmistakably dyed hair that he had missed at first sight. 

“Tw-” Tim pauses, the name on the tip of his tongue as he remembers where and _ who _ he is right now. He swallows it down, squeezing the man’s hunched shoulder gently. “Are you o-?” 

The man ignites at the touch, flinging himself from Tim’s grip with a startled look. Tim retreats a step as he stills, seems to drink in Red Robin’s imposing figure against the gloom. He gapes for a moment, recognition clearing the confusion from his features as he brings up a palm to swipe over his cheeks. 

God, he’s been crying a while. His brown eyes are swollen and puffy, rimmed in red, and Tim can see the dried tracks glistening on his high cheekbones. 

“What the fuck do you want?” Twinka bites, pulling his feet under him and pushing to his feet unsteadily. 

“I- You were-” Tim pauses at his impatient glare, and tries for, “Are you okay?” 

“Do I fucking look okay to you?” he snaps, and tugs the edge of his shirt to straighten it. He looks like he’s dressed up for the occasion, and Tim glances down at the tatters of the flowers. 

“Did you… Are you visiting someone?” Tim entreats, and Twinka’s nostrils flare with his irritation. His eyes well with tears, flashing with hatred in the orange glow. 

“What’s it to you, el poli?” he sneers, and drags his gaze scathingly up Tim’s costume. “You always stalk people in cemeteries? Got nowhere better to be? Que te den.” 

When he goes to brush past him, Tim steps into his path, raising his hands in surrender. Twinka reels back from the proximity, body tensing for a fight as his eyes flicker over Tim’s hands, his posture. 

Tim withdraws immediately at his hard exhale, offering, “I’m not going to hurt you. You don’t have to leave on my account. I’ll go, if that’s what you want. You don’t have to leave…” 

_ Domi, _ Tim’s mind supplies as he wheels an absent wrist towards the gravestone, the image of Twinka curled over the bar, voice strained with unshed tears and looking so dejected, filling his mind. 

“...here,” Tim finishes lamely, and wishes he wasn’t in costume right now, if only so he could comfort the man without the facade between them. 

It’s not until Twinka chokes down another wave of brimming tears and Tim’s stomach clenches with the force of his helplessness and sympathy, that he realises he can at least bridge some of the gap. 

“Can I get you anything?” he entreats, wary of reaching for the jumpy man. “Some water? Or can I walk you home? It’s not safe at this time of night; you can’t be walking the streets al-” 

Twinka bursts into tears, and Tim rushes to figure out what he said to set the man off. “I’m sorry,” the man bleats, seemingly unable to curb the flow of tears, shrivelling in on himself. “I’m not usually- this isn’t- I’m so sorry.” 

“Don’t be sorry,” Tim murmurs gently, feeling abysmally useless, watching the man cry in an abandoned cemetery in the dead of night. He can’t bring himself to reach out and comfort the man though, not with how violently Twinka reacted before. “You’re allowed to cry.” 

“I’m not usually like this,” Twinka insists with a curl of his lips, as if he’s irritated to find himself crying. “I don’t know why I’m so…” 

“You’re grieving,” Tim says hollowly, shoulders slumping at the sight of the man, at how small and forlorn he looks in the shadows of the gravestones. Twinka swipes at the tracks of tears stubbornly. “You’re allowed to grieve.” 

“I _ miss him,_” Twinka whispers, and digs his palm into his eye socket, as if he can staunch his crying. “_Fuck. _ I just want- I just want him back, okay? Why can’t he- Why can’t I have him back? Why him? Why _ him?_” 

Tim catches him on reflex when Twinka’s knees give out, crouching to lower the man back to the grass as his shoulders heave. His nails bite into the kevlar weave of Tim’s suit, his forehead digging hard into Tim’s collarbone as he cradles Twinka’s arms loosely and murmurs senselessly into the silence. 

It feels like an age before Twinka rocks back with a sharp sniffle, the sobbing quietened by the tears still flowing silently, and glances over at the headstone. He looks away almost immediately, unable to find something to land on other than Tim as he shivers and crosses his arms in a poor attempt to hide how much he wants to hug himself. 

“I’m sorry,” he apologises in a hoarse, dull croak. “You’ve probably got better shit to do than look after one guy in a cemetery.” 

“This is exactly where I need to be,” Tim says firmly, and when the silence lingers, “Do you want to talk about it?” 

The look Twinka casts him is tiredly sarcastic, and altogether dejected, drawing characteristically sour features gaunt in the sparse light. But he sniffs and drags the heel of his hand over his cheek when he sees Tim isn’t flinching. “My, um, my partner died recen- a month ago. His name was Domi.” 

The way he says Domi’s name, soft and hushed like if he speaks too loudly the moment will shatter, serrates through Tim’s chest. 

“This is his… it’s his grave, I guess,” Twinka mumbles, gesturing lamely as he stares at the unyielding stone. 

Tim doesn’t talk; he’s spent more time with jumpers and hostages than any person should ever have to in their lifetime, and he’s learnt that widows and widowers need an entirely different sort of quiet. 

Twinka shifts, wraps his fingers in some of grass growing along the edge of the turned soil, yanking at the strands until they snap. “This was the first time I came to visit him. I couldn’t- I didn’t go to the funeral,” Twinka whispers, tone haunted. “He never introduced me to his parents. I don’t think they ever even knew he was…” 

Tim’s throat feels tight when he watches Twinka swallow, a bitter sort of dejection settling like a mask over his features. 

“They didn’t know about us,” he clarifies in a mutter. “And I didn’t want the first time they met me to be at his _ funeral. _ And I couldn’t _ out _ him like that, not to his family, not when they were grieving too. So I… I didn’t go. I took the day off work and I, well.” 

His laugh is bleak when he lifts his head to gaze out over the cemetery, unseeing. 

“I had someone to look after me. She sat with me the whole day, cleaned me up. I don’t know what I do to deserve people like that,” Twinka croaks. “Domi was always the one who… _ fuck, _ I know it’s stupid, but he really lit up the room. Like the _ sun. _ Mi girasol alto. People were always smiling around him. _ I _ was always smiling around him.” 

“Sounds like a great guy,” Tim interjects softly. 

“I don’t understand,” Twinka says numbly, “why they would take him. _ How _ could you take someone like Domi? He wouldn’t have even fought back. I _ know _ him. He wouldn’t have. All that size on him, and he wouldn’t have hurt a damn fly. He didn’t _ deserve _ any of this.” 

Tim watches the way his shoulders cave inwards, as if they can swallow Twinka up. “You didn’t either.” 

Twinka hiccups, lifting those dark eyes to search Tim’s face, obscured by his domino. 

Tim shifts forward to squeeze his shoulder, resolve fortifying hard and heavy in his chest. “I’m going to find who did this,” he promises, letting every ounce of sincerity fill the words. “I’m going to bring them to justice.” 

Twinka barks a bleak laugh, shoulders hunching as his hands dangle between his knees. “Same as I told the other guy; I’ll believe it when I see it.” 

* * *

Jason worries.

He worries about the working girls, he worries about the sisters at the church, he worries about the street kids when he doesn’t see them after a night or two on patrol. And he’s already added the Daily O staff to his staggering list of obligations. He cut work short after Teddy left, Roy agreeing to keep an eye on things with Tommy as company. It’s a welcome respite from the routine he’s been living for the past month, and his blood is singing high with adrenaline as he crashes through a sky light onto the folding card table where some idiot gangbangers are hoping to plan out a route for some weapons trading.

It’s the third round up of his evening, and it takes him less than an hour to get them all down and strung up for GCPD. Despite the way he relishes how satisfying their noses were to break, or how nice if felt to feel a femur or two snap under his boot, Jason knows he’s distracted. He calls it a night, phoning it in both metaphorically and to the police, because he has been entirely on autopilot since he packed up at his dresser at the Daily O. 

Unlike Bruce, Jason knows his limits.

He slips through the window of his apartment and sheds his gear mechanically, mind miles away. He knows in his heart that his head is over on the side of town where a pretty boy is probably hunkered down in bed with a case of the sniffles coming on. _ Or maybe the flu_, Jason reasons, since he left work so quickly. That’s how it goes; one minute you’re fine, the next you’re bedbound, shuddering through the aching lungs and onset cramps. Not that Jason has experience with that or anything. 

“Fuck.” 

Jason scrubs his hands through his hair after taking off his helmet, grimacing. He’s not going to be able to sleep tonight until he checks up on Teddy. It’s still early enough, barely 11:30pm. Not an entirely unacceptable time to be checking in on a sick colleague. If he’s still awake. Jason hopes he is. 

Decision made, he heads to the fridge and rummages in his freezer until he finds the tupperware he’s looking for. It’s Alfred’s recipe, but with his own twist on chicken noodle soup; a whole chicken roasted with lemon, ginger and leeks with a dash of Hungarian paprika, then picked and shredded into the soup base. The noodles were homemade, as was the stock, because canned soup was canned crap in Jason’s humble opinion. 

From memory, the kid didn’t have a stove or any kind of cooking equipment in his little motel room, and from what Jason had witnessed, Teddy lived on greasy take-out and Zesti. A home-cooked meal would be much better than whatever delivery boys could scrape up. 

He drops the container on the countertop and fiddles with the microwave settings to get it cooked and piping hot. His patrol thermos is in the drying rack, and he gives it a quick sniff just to be safe. The army green canister is banged up and scratched to hell, but it’s clean and will keep the soup hot for the trek over. 

Speaking of sniffing, he gives himself a whiff and cringes, because _ eau de justice _ is not pleasant, and he’s sure Teddy would be able to smell him even with a clogged nose. While the microwave hums away, he takes a thorough shower and shaves. The bottle of lube is back on the sink, tempting him. 

“Damnit, Roy,” he breathes, knocking the bottle into the trash can.

The drive over is quick, weaving through cars and buzzing past the lazy cops on his motorcycle like he’s chasing the Joker. Nobody gets in his way, because it’s Gotham. There are bigger fish to fry than some asshole on the road. He arrives just in time to intercept the delivery boy for Mezzo’s Gyros, paying the kid fifty dollars too much and dumping the grease bomb of a gyros in a homeless man’s lap on his trek to Teddy’s motel room door. 

Nervously, he rakes his wind-dried still-damp hair back from his face, the small nylon sack he uses for evidence collection laden with a thermos of soup and a canister of lemon ginger tea that Jason knows for a fact will soothe any sore throat. He is about to knock when he hears a soft thud inside, and his paranoia ramps up a degree when it’s followed by the sound of a window shutting. Someone shuffles around inside, moving around the room at an easy pace. It doesn’t sound like an intruder necessarily; just Teddy wandering his room going about his nightly routine, but Jason can’t shake the suspicion. 

The silence after he knocks drags on and makes him fidget, until he hears the distinct sound of the deadbolt sliding. Teddy blinks out at him from the crack the chain lock allows, and then he shuts the door to unlock it entirely. He looks much better than he did at the club, less flushed but still damp with sweat, and his hair is a mess.

_ Like he just got out of bed, _Jason thinks dreamily, as his brain reboots. Something about those doe eyes shuts his higher brain functions down every time he meets them. 

“Hi,” Teddy says with breathless surprise, throat sounding dry and raw. Maybe he’s developed a horrible cough in the time since he’d seen him last. Jason’s heartstrings twang pitifully. 

“Soup,” he stammers dumbly, holding out his rucksack. “I, uh... I thought you might need something for dinner. For your cold. I hope I’m not intruding. I was worried.” 

Teddy’s gaze drifts to the bag he’s holding out like a moron, and he lowers it quickly to hide his awkwardness.

“I’m feeling better,” Teddy murmurs. “I ordered some dinner, but I can put it in the fridge.”

“Gyros?” Jason asks. Teddy’s brow raises when he nods. “Uh, I think your neighbor got it,” he lies, laughing quickly. “Good thing I came.” 

Teddy glances out the door, scanning for a sign of the delivery boy, before it falls back to Jason’s hand. Then he flashes him a shy, beaming smile. “Thanks,” he croaks, and Jason passes the bag to him after a moment of staring stupidly. 

“I’ll leave you to it then. Guess I’ll see you tomorrow-”

“Come in?” Teddy asks, catching his jacket sleeve as he turns to depart. 

Jason nods, because he’s doomed and there’s not a damn thing he can do about it. He lets the man tug him into the room, which is a little messy but altogether cozy for a motel room. The bed is unmade, and Teddy kicks what looks like some boots under the bed before he can get a good look.

“Sorry for the mess, I just woke up,” Teddy admits, opening the rucksack to pull out the thermos. He stares at it in his palm for a beat too long and Jason realizes too late that there is definitely a graze from a bullet on the side of it. He gulps, snagging it back from him to smother the blemish with his palm, and unscrews it to pour out a portion into the lid. 

The heavenly scent of savory ginger and lemon drifts through the air, and he hands the cup to Teddy self-consciously. The man doesn’t hesitate to sip the broth, eyes lighting up when he swallows. 

“What brand is this? Progresso?” 

“Uh… brand?” Jason rubs his neck. “I made it.”

“You…” Teddy’s face is unreadable as he stares into the cup. “What a waste.”

“I’m sorry?” Jason winces. “I can go pick up gyros for you.”

“No!” Teddy blurts, flushing. “I mean, you should be doing this, not pa- not dancing. This is the best soup I’ve _ ever _had.”

“Oh,” Jason mumbles, relieved. 

Teddy hides his face by draining the cup, before holding it out eagerly for another serving. Jason takes it with a twitch of a smile, settling on the bed beside him. It dips beneath his weight, and Teddy slides a few inches closer. Jason does his best to pretend not to notice the way the thin material of his pajamas presses flush against Jason’s thigh. 

He clears his throat, handing the lid back to the smaller man. “So how’re you feeling?” 

“Better,” Teddy replies, and flushes. “Still, um. Still got the cold, I think. But on the mend, definitely.” 

Relief unwinds the vice of Jason’s chest, and he exhales gratefully. “I’m glad.” 

Teddy’s lips curl in a gentle smile. “I’ll be back at work tomorrow, don’t you worry.” 

Jason frowns. “If you’re not feeling well, you shouldn’t have to come to work.” 

Teddy gives him an amused look. “I can’t just take days off work, Jack.” 

Jason’s stomach knots with the first tinges of despair. “Yes, you _ can. _ If you’re worried about the money, I can just give it to you. I _ will _ just give it to you. I’ll _ pay _ you to stay home if I have to. You shouldn’t be coming to work if you’re sick.” 

Teddy’s expression is quietly bemused, like he’s not taking this seriously. Jason’s brow tugs into a scowl. 

“Teddy, I won’t let you come into work. It’s not worth it.” 

“I disagree,” he says crispy. 

Jason swells. “What could possibly be worth going to work sick?” 

“You, for a start,” Teddy chirps softly, and Jason stalls out. Teddy’s eyes crinkle at the corners when he chuckles, and Jason makes a strange choked noise that makes Teddy grin. He feels too hot. 

“You-” 

“Yes?” 

Jason feels like he needs to slap himself, if only to keep his reeling thoughts on track. “That’s… not a good enough reason.” 

Teddy frowns, very slightly. “It is for me.” 

Jason’s heart feels like it’s too big for his chest, pressing against his ribcage with bruising warmth. “Is it?” 

“Jack,” Teddy murmurs with a beetled brow, a smile tugging at his lips. “You gave me your money. You helped me get a motel room. You walk me home every opportunity you get. You brought me soup. The last time I tasted soup this good is when I brought-” Teddy flushes, glancing down and beaming into his empty cup. “This is the sort of thing a... boyfriend would do.” 

Jason swallows, his throat lacing shut. He forces out the words, even though his brain screams at him not to. “I’m not your boyfriend.” 

“No,” Teddy agrees, and Jason’s stomach sinks. “But I wouldn’t mind if you were. You’d make a great boyfriend. Whoever ends up with you would be the luckiest person alive, Jack. I really mean that.” 

There’s a buzzing in his ears, dull and staticky. Jason licks his lips nervously. “I think you’d make a great boyfriend too, Teddy.” 

Teddy’s features slacken at the confession, his gaze flickering between Jason’s eyes with a sort of dumbfounded fascination, and Jason panics. 

“I just mean that whoever got you would-” 

Teddy surges forwards, swallowing his words up with a crash of lips. His teeth clack against Jason’s, but then he’s lifting his free hand to cup Jason’s jaw, guide him down until their mouths slot together, until Jason can open his lips and let Teddy pour himself in. He’s headier than whiskey, muddying Jason’s senses until his head is spinning and he’s gasping for air. 

Teddy pulls back with a deep inhale, meeting Jason’s shocked gaze and wincing slightly. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-” 

Jason’s hands are huge on the panes of Teddy’s face when he yanks him back in, the smaller man’s fingers curling on his wrist to pull himself closer. Chasing down the taste of Teddy on the back of his tongue. He’s practically sitting in Jason’s lap, his other hand reaching up to trail through Jason’s hair. He realises belatedly that they’ve dropped the cup at some point, and he’ll have to find it before he leaves - but then Jason’s mind is consumed by the sensation of Teddy swiping his tongue over Jason’s, corralling his breaths with soft, sharp little mewls as he climbs across his thighs. 

“_Angel,_” Jason declares when Teddy pulls off next, lips raw and red. Teddy’s hands are roaming up his arms, nails sinking in as he tries to get closer, press himself against Jason. He seems fevered and fervent beneath Jason’s palms, overeager. 

“He called you,” Teddy pants, lidded gaze dazed as he stares at Jason’s mouth, entranced as he strains to get the message across. “At the club, he called you- Can I call you Jay too?” 

Jason moans, and leans down kiss his jaw. “Yeah, angel, you can- whatever you want, angel, whatever you want. That’d be-” He whines when Teddy’s hands fist in his shirt, swollen lips brushing the corners of his lips. “Shit, that’d be amazing.” 

“_Jay,_” Teddy says in earnest, and it makes Jason _ ferocious. _

Jason’s on the cusp of passing out, unable to get any closer to Teddy - unable to taste him any deeper on his tongue and on his lips, like he’s tattooed on Jason’s tastebuds - when his cell bleats loudly in the silence between their gasps. 

Teddy stiffens in his lap, breaking off with fluttering lashes that Jason can’t help but stare at. He clears his throat, his voice a little hoarse when he says, “I think that was your phone.” 

“Yeah,” Jason breathes, but it takes another notification before Jason’s digging into his pocket, Teddy sliding out of his lap and onto the covers. 

Jason glances down at his palm, thumbing his screen open to a text from Dick. Across the room, on the beside table, Teddy’s phone pings, and he swivels to glance at it. 

“Shit,” Jason mutters at the two most dreaded words any Gothamite can read: _ Arkham breakout. _ He glances up to meet Teddy’s bashful smile, watch the play of light over his muscles when he runs a hand back through his very mussed hair. 

“I, uh, that sounded important,” he says with an ecstatic grin. “Do you wanna get that?” 

Jason swallows. _ No, _ he thinks vehemently. “Yes,” he croaks, and slides up to his feet. Teddy watches him rise. “It’s um. An emergency, sort of. I’ve gotta go.” 

He can’t bring himself to move though, not until Teddy sprawls out his legs on the covers with a warm smile, and beams up at him. “I had a good time tonight,” he says softly as he begins to fret, fingers absently tracing the pattern on the covers. “And I really appreciate the soup.” 

“Try to drink all of it,” Jason says, and almost kicks himself. He starts backtracking for the door to preemptively cut off whatever stupid shit tries to come out of his mouth next. “It’ll make you feel better, I promise.” 

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Teddy says with a dazzling, knowing grin, and Jason ducks quickly out of the room. It’s not until he’s fired a grapnel and is swooping up to the rooftops that he lets the peal of laughter explode from his thrumming chest. 

* * *

The post-breakout round up goes fairly quickly, as far as Tim’s concerned. They wrap up most of the stragglers shortly before dawn, cornering the last few escapees in a warehouse in the Water District. 

It’s not as exhilarating as making out with former-Robin Jason Todd, but it would take a bulldozer the size of the clocktower to knock Tim off the high he’s riding. Dick’s made a few teasing comments on his perky demeanour, beaming from under his Nightwing domino as they ratchet the cuffs closed and ascend to the rooftop of the warehouse to wait out the sirens. 

“You find a new ultra-strength coffee, Red?” Nightwing shoots over when Tim holsters his grapnel. “I haven’t seen you bouncing off the ceiling like this since B got you that motorcycle for Christmas.” 

Tim laughs, too giddy to bother with being scathing, and watches Nightwing straighten, stretching out his muscles as he turns to grin at the Red Hood, who looms like a spectre beside Dick’s bouncing, stoic as a gargoyle on the sheet metal roof. 

“Someone could use a pick-me-up though,” he croons, poking at the stern mouthpiece of Jason’s helmet. “Send a little love Hood’s way, Red. Looks like he needs it.” 

“I will punch you in the dick, Dick,” Jason snarls, and bats his hand away. 

Dick’s brow pinches to join his pout. “What’s got your panties in a bunch? Get stood up at prom?” 

Tim’s giggling before he has the sense of mind to think better of it, and the glare Jason shoots him - even though those dark lens - could incinerate the Fortress of Solitude. His jaw snaps shut abruptly, but he can’t shove down the tingling elation that’s warming his veins. 

“I don’t know why the fuck I show up when you call these days,” Jason sneers, gesturing to the thugs that he’s bagged and tagged in the warehouse below, distinguishable by their array of harsher bruises and smattering of broken fingers. “I end up doing all the damn work myself.” 

“Oh, yeah,” Dick coos, and grins. “Definitely prom.” 

Jason’s arms snap out of their irritated knot, fists balling as he spins to rise imposingly over the vigilante. “What were you doing? Busy sticking your tongue down Star’s throat?” 

Dick recoils from the ferocity in his tone, smile slipping off his features like water. “That’s not-” 

“Hood,” Tim chastises, and Jason spins to fix him with that same glare. It’s vicious enough to have the air halting in Tim’s throat, some of the mirth bubbling in him slowing to a viscous burn. 

“And where the fuck where you, huh?” 

Tim starts, taking aback as he fumbles for an excuse. “I had a case-” 

“Yeah, you’ve always got a case,” Jason snaps. “And your territory be damned, right? A body washes up on your doorstep and you’re too busy ‘working a case’ to look into it.” 

Tim’s jaw falls open, the words sticking in the back of his throat. Is that _ really _ what Jason thinks of him? Thinks of Tim, the _ real _ Tim? That he’s some asshole who’d prioritise a case over the people who depend on him, on his patrol, to keep them safe? 

_ Isn’t that exactly what he’s been doing? _ that snide little voice that permanently inhabits the back of Tim’s skull sneers. _ Playing dress up with a man who doesn’t even know who he really is, and neglecting his duties to boot? _

_ Selfish, _it snarls, and Tim tries to shove it to the back of his mind. 

His case is important. Domi’s important, _ Twinka’s _ important. Yolanda and Charla and Tommy are important, as are the rest of the staff in danger at the Daily O. Just as important as the people he meets on patrol, just as needy. This whole city pulls at Tim’s threads until he feels like he’s unravelling. Just once he’d like to see the impact his help has on the people who cherish it the most. 

“My case is _ important,_” Tim starts, tone stern and defensive. It’s _ your _ case, he wants to say, but doesn’t. 

“What, some rich bastard misplace his anniversary rolex? Cut the crap, _ kid._” The word sears into Tim’s lungs, sharp and painful. “If you can’t keep up with the gig, then leave it to someone who actually gives a shit about this city.” 

Tim sucks in a steadying breath, overriding Dick when he tries to step between them. “You’re right. I shouldn’t be neglecting my routes. But I have _ good reasons _ to be taking this case. You’d think they were good enough reasons too, in my shoes.” 

“I doubt that,” Jason bites, and Tim’s heart solidifies to lead. 

“What did I do to make you hate me?” he asks, and Jason shakes in the silence, unwilling or unable to justify that with an answer. 

“You know what you did,” he manages finally. 

Tim’s not buying that old crock of shit tonight. “Because I replaced you? I don’t think so. We got over that a long time ago, right around the time you took your therapy out on my _ neck._” Jason flinches with the reminder, and Tim’s reminded of the soft touch of his fingers against that scar, so much more gentle than his words are now. “So what’s your issue with me? Why are you always like this whenever you _ see _ me? We could’ve been friends, you know. We could’ve been-” 

He forces himself to swallow down that confession, to ball his fists and make his damn point already. 

“We would be friends, in another life,” he says coldly, and in that moment Tim almost wishes Jason would recognise him. Would be able to see the heat his palms had seared into Tim’s skin not even an hour ago, pressed against him in a shitty motel room with a name that’s _ not Tim’s _ on his lips. 

Jason’s shoulders slump a little with the guilt, but the ice doesn’t leave his tone. “I doubt that.” 

Tim deflates. It must be visible in his posture, because Dick steps forward to squeeze his shoulder and offer him a tight, consolatory smile before he turns to Jason. 

“That’s cold, Hood.” 

“We wouldn’t be,” Jason says, defensive, but it’s lacking it’s bite. Then he seems to regain some of his steely exterior. “Besides, B wouldn’t let his mini-me run around with the family fuck-up if he was around to see it.” 

“B is back in town,” Dick offers, and Tim starts, head jerking up in his surprise. 

“He is?” 

Jason snorts derisively. “Thought you and B-man were fused at the hip, replacement,” he sneers. “Thought you would’ve been the first to know.” 

“Red Robin’s been un-” 

“On a case,” Tim interjects quickly, and for whatever reason, Dick lets it slide. 

“Didn’t think B would let you go off on your own in his city,” Jason says coldly, and Tim’s chest aches, “not after what happened to the last Robin. Double standards always were his calling card though, weren't they?" 

“Hood,” Nightwing begins, tone laced with both chastisement and grief. 

“Whatever,” Jason sneers, firing a grapnel and leaping from the warehouse without a backwards glance. 

Tim’s left alone on the rooftop with his heart tangled in his ribs, the feel of Jason’s lips still lingering on his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs of the Night are “Old Town Road Pony Mashup” by Pomplamoose and “Yoü And I” by Lady Gaga. 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed our recent [Christmas Spinoff](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21961033), but just in case you missed it - happy holidays! <3 
> 
> **Note as at 01/02/20: We accidentally pulled the trigger on the uncompleted chapter 6. We're very sorry! It's almost ready, and should be released in the next couple of days. Apologies for the false email notification, and thank you so much for your patience!!**


	6. Subday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the last false start, but hope you enjoy the finished work!!

Tim times his arrival at the Daily O to be exactly fifteen minutes late, apologizing to Charla as he bolts past the bar and all by slides down the stairs to the Pit. Twinka calls out to ask him where he’s going, and Tim offers him a quick apology too as he ducks behind the curtain. 

Yolanda starts when she sees him enter wardrobe, the dressing room only just beginning to attract the dancers before their shifts start. She’s preparing for the night, a handful of costumes laid out behind her when Tim approaches with confident purpose. 

“I want a routine,” Tim demands firmly, planting himself before the woman. 

Yolanda blinks. “Teddy, sweetie, I admire your gusto. But servers just don’t have the, uh, build for polework-” 

“I’ve been attending your classes,” Tim points out, and Yolanda’s lips purse. “You know what my pole skills are like. I can hold down a stage routine.” 

“You won’t pull a crowd all on your lonesome,” Yolanda returns matter-of-factly, coiling up a length of soft red rope as she cocks one hip. “We’d have to run you a headline to introduce you, and Sunday is one of our biggest nights. We just don’t have the time to organise that on short notice.” 

“Then let me do a joint routine,” Tim says. 

He’d thought about this for nearly three hours last night, staring at the dark ceiling in his motel room as the sun had washed over Gotham. He can’t reconcile the soft passion of Jason, on that exact bed, with the harsh bite of him on that rooftop. The difference is like summer and winter from where Tim’s sitting, and it makes his gut twist. 

They’d been making so much _ progress. _ To see all that dashed the instant Jason was exposed to all his prejudices, all his _ assumptions _ about Tim… 

They work well together, Tim’s seen it. He’s _ felt _ it. Their Sinful Sunday routine had felt like the first time he’d really seen Jason - and Jason him - for who he was. It had been so effortless, so easy to fall into that rhythm of partners, and this last week has only reaffirmed Tim’s belief that they _ are _ compatible. If only Jason could see it. 

Tim’s going to make him see it. 

Yolanda appraises him with a crooked, amused brow. “You want to do a joint routine? That’s a big step up from being an accessory.” 

“I won’t let you down,” Tim insists. “I can do this. You said we worked well together last Sunday. Let me go on as the angel again, expand my persona-” 

Yolanda’s already laughing, a wicked, lilting thing. She reaches out a crooked finger to stroke Tim’s cheek, smiling at his confused expression. “No can do, Teddy. It’s the third Sunday of the month.” 

Tim frowns. “What does that have to do with anything?” 

The queen shifts so he can see the array of outfits on the table behind her. “Third Sunday of every month is a speciality night; tonight is Subday.” 

There’s an overabundant amount of leather that makes Tim blush. Vests, harnesses, booty shorts - and Tim thinks he spots a flogger before Yolanda’s bright laugh snaps his gaze back up. 

“I don’t think your angel is going to cut it tonight, darling,” she purrs, knocking a knuckle softly under his chin as she lays her coil of red rope out on the table. She brushes past him to rifle through the shoes, tossing him a kind smile. “I’ll find you something to show off those legs of yours. But you’re going to have to work the floor, not the pole, tonight, Teddy.” 

Tim sucks in a steadying breath, setting his shoulders as he swivels to address her. “I can do it, I know I can. Give me a chance. I _ want _ to do this.” 

“I can see that, darlin’,” Yolanda hums. “But wanting doesn’t cash your paycheck. I can’t run you alone, especially without any preparation or introduction. And I don’t know who I could put you with for a joint-” 

“What about Jack,” Tim blurts, and the way Yolanda stiffens for the barest moment, smothering a rogue smile, tells him he wasn’t the first to think of it. 

“What about Jackie?” she asks, pinning him with that knowing gaze. Tim shifts beneath the attention. 

“I could do a routine with him. He seems to know what he’s doing.” 

“Jack has a Subday routine,” Yolanda concedes, impressively impassive. “Sundays are one of his two performing days.” She appraises him for a moment. “You two did work well together last time though, even on short notice. But this is cutting it a bit close.” 

Tim leaps on the opportunity. “I won’t let you down. I can do this, I know it. Please?” 

“Begging will get you everywhere, darlin’,” Yolanda croons, and takes his chin in palm, surveying his features with an appraising eye. “But we’re giving you a new persona. Something a little less angelic, I think. What do you say?” 

Tim sets his jaw, a flame flickering in his chest. If this is the only way to prove to Jason how well they work together, how compatible they really are, then he’ll take it. If he can set aside the angelic persona Tim’s built for this new one, maybe he’ll be able to set aside Teddy when the time comes. He has to try, regardless. 

“Let’s do it.” 

* * *

Jason doesn’t even make it to his vanity before Tommy waves him off, spouting something about his fortunate self being summoned by Yolanda. 

“I’m on in forty minutes,” Jason argues as he nudges his helmet safely under his dresser and shucks his leather jacket. “What’s so important that she needs me right now?” 

Tommy shrugs, leaning into his reflection to painstakingly apply his blood-red lipstick. Those lips are going to look fabulous when Tommy wraps them around his signature ball-gag. “You got axed, apparently.” 

Jason pauses, blinking down at him. “What?” 

Tommy straightens, smacks his lips once and smiles at his reflection. He turns back with a placating expression that’s nearly eaten up beneath the thick slice of his eyeliner and heavy eyeshadow. Tommy always leans into his more risque persona on Subdays, turning his makeup into a performance art with how often his mascara ends up streaked down his cheeks. Jason knows from experience that he makes a pretty sight, hair mussed and thick collar tight against his Adam’s apple, pupils blown wide as he stares up at a patron from his knees. 

“Yolanda wants you for another routine,” Tommy supplies, and looks equally ignorant when Jason frowns down at him. “I didn’t hear anything more than that. All I know is she’s already got your outfit planned, so she wants you in wardrobe _ yesterday_. Better dash.” 

Jason grunts noncommittally and discards his jacket, beelining for the side entrance into the wardrobe. “Thanks for the heads up, Nebraska.” 

“Anytime, Jersey,” Tommy returns with a tilted smile, before turning back to inspect his lashes. 

Jason shoulders past another dancer in a tightly laced corset, spotting Yolanda across the room, squabbling covertly with her stylist. 

“Y’landa,” Jason drawls as he approaches, and spreads his arms wide in reprimand. “What’s all this I hear about you pulling my routine?” 

She turns with a grin, grasping his shoulders when he’s near, and pecks him lightly on each cheek. “Thought you’d never show, Jack. That habit of yours is going to get you in trouble one day,” she chastises for the benefit of the stylist, patting Jason’s ass to jostle the pack of smokes there. 

Jason quickly affects a beaming smile. “You know I like a quick smoke to calm down before a show,” he purrs, and studiously doesn’t think about how bruised his knuckles are at the moment. About how he’d spent the last hour wrestling guns off three guys down at the docks. “I’m a man of discipline.” 

Yolanda snorts and turns back to an outfit she’s got spread out across the nearest bench. “Discipline my perky left tit, Jackie. You’re as daring as they come. Which is why,” she adds, and gestures to her masterpiece, “tonight I’m having you taken down a peg.” 

It’s a mostly-leather ensemble: a standard pair of rip-off assless chaps that lace from ankle to hip up either side with tantalising red thread; a chest harness that wraps over each shoulder and under each arm, two straps arching towards the silver ring at the center to frame his pectorals before they descend to meet a band that will fit snugly around his ribcage; and a pair of glimmering silver cuffs with a negligible amount of chain between them. 

Jason eyes the outfit with a crooked brow before fixing Yolanda with the full force of his incredulity. “My chest is going to be mighty cold with all those damn straps over it.” 

Yolanda rolls her eyes and skirts the table. “You’ve got to be the most demanding dancer I’ve ever dressed.” 

Jason steps up to lean his palms against the wood, flashing his signature grin. “But I’m the most handsome too, right?” 

“Get _ dressed_,” she instructs, shoving the harness towards his spread hands. “I’ll throw in a leather jacket for you, how’s that? I know they’re your favourite; I’ve seen how you covet that ratty old thing you walk in wearing.” 

Jason flushes at the unexpected consideration, opening his mouth to protest that his favourite jacket is _ not _ ratty, but thinks better of it. This is Jack they’re discussing, not the streetrat Batman pulled from the gutters of Gotham. He’s just a little miffed that any part of his real life is leeching through into his persona. 

“Sorry to say, Landa,” Jason drawls, but inspects the harness anyway, “but none of this exactly screams ‘dominant’ to me. If anything, I’d say it’s a very adamant ‘dominate me, daddy’.” 

Yolanda’s expression is artfully cool in a way that tells Jason he’s getting nowhere with his attempts to weasel out of her carefully cultivated outfit. “That’s cute,” she murmurs mildly. “You should use that when you get on stage.” 

Jason’s lips twitch in a conspiratorial smile, but when Yolanda’s brows only rise pointedly, he blanches. “Wait, you can’t be serious. You’re sending _ me _ in as your performance sub?” 

“Good grief, no,” Yolanda snorts, and gestures impatiently for Jason to start stripping. He does so reluctantly, but keep his eyes on her as she talks. “I couldn’t see you kowtowing in a million years. But I’ve found a bratty sub who might just be able to keep you on your toes for the night.” 

“Bratty sub or power bottom?” Jason interjects, and Yolanda scowls until he starts shrugging into the harness. 

“Don’t push your luck,” she advises, and steps around to help fasten the network of straps where they meet at the base of his sternum. “If I trust this kid, you should too.” 

“Why am I only now hearing of this great usurper?” Jason asks, rolling his shoulders when Yolanda straightens. 

“Because I only took him in a few weeks ago. And let’s just say we’ve been doing some private lessons, and the kid’s shown some talent when it comes to being a throbbing cocktease.” 

“Oh _ great,_” Jason croons, and yanks the pants up over his thighs. “Just what I needed for the night - blue balls and a mouthy sub.” 

Yolanda hums, yanking the red string tight until the meat of his thighs is properly straining against the thread. “I could gag him if you wanted; I don’t think he’d be adverse to it. Like I said, his persona is a bratty _ sub. _But I thought you might want to see what he can do with his mouth first.” 

Jason scowls, mumbling something about entrapment as he shrugs into the black leather jacket. Feels how the motion pulls the harness taut against his chest, a firm reminder of exactly what he’s getting himself into. “So what, I get to be an accessory for the evening?” 

“Think of it more like an interactive decoration,” Yolanda chirps unsympathetically. 

“And what, this twink is just gonna work the pole while I stand there like some handsome himbo?” 

“Maybe he’ll work you,” Yolanda says in a low timbre, making Jason choke on his next breath. She laughs when he glares up at her through a smattering of sudden tears. “Oh sweetie, you can’t be acting so prudish when I’ve seen what you can do with those thighs. Harden up and do what you do best. Work with your partner. Like I said, this kid is eager, but this is his first time taking the lead on stage. You’re his dom for this performance, even if it doesn’t seem like it, so take advantage of that. Guide him.” 

“I don’t even know who _ he _ is yet,” Jason points out, and glares when Yolanda reaches for the tiny set of cuffs. “Yeah, no, I draw the line at jewellery that’s going to cut off my circulation.” 

“So _ pampered,_” Yolanda hisses, but it’s fond. She rifles through a nearby box of odds and ends, and produces a pair of leather cuffs connected by a foot and a half of chain. She brandishes it at him, and Jason takes it with a sigh, fitting the first black cuff over his wrist. “Keep the other loose until you get up on stage.” 

Jason lifts a brow. “You’re tying me down, huh? Kinky.” 

“Gets better,” Yolanda promises with a wink, and holds up what looks to be a thick strip of black material. 

“Blindfolding,” Jason realises, shoulders slumping with resignation. “Love it.” 

She ties it loosely around his neck for safekeeping. “Can really _ enhance _ the experience. Now get to makeup and hair; you’re on in twenty minutes.” 

“I’m trusting you, Landa,” Jason calls as he heads back for his dresser. “My fate and my dick are in your capable hands.” 

She flips him a rare showing of the bird, and Jason grins, ducking behind the curtain. Tommy’s vacated his dresser by the time Jason settles in front of the vanity, and the clock above the stage door tells him he’s got a solid seventeen minutes before he’s needed up top. 

He runs through the motions of a basic application, framing his features and strengthening his jawline with a smatter of contouring. Then he gels his hair hastily, picking at the knot of the blindfold at his neck as he takes the staircase up two at a time. 

The stagehand posted behind the thick curtain greets him with a blunt, “Lose the shoes, beefcake.” 

“Dinner first,” Jason chastises with a cocky smirk, but toes out of his boots and casts them aside before they sweep back the curtain with a flourish. 

The house is just beginning to fill when Jason struts out onto the stage, the last of the stragglers shuffling into the back row of tables. A few stray cheers rise from the regulars, so Jason flashes a beaming grin and strolls the length of the stage, pausing to glance back over his shoulder at the end, shimmying in the tight leather as he throws out a saucy wink. 

The stagehand endures his exaggerated flirting with impermeable patience, guiding Jason down to a high kneel when he finally joins them at the pole. The crowd is decently buzzed after his flaunting, and an excited murmur starts up when they reach down to grasp the open cuff that dangles from Jason’s bound wrist. 

Jason makes a show of arching his hips out while they crouch to loop the chain around the back of the pole, gyrating slowly to keep the crowd’s attention until he feels the leather bite firmly into his pulse. He spreads his knees wider, leaning forward until the chain goes taut, links chiming against the metal pole. He dives down, using the leverage to keep himself an inch off the stage as he grinds his hips down towards the wood at a pace that tests even his muscled core. 

A few excited screams rise up from beyond the ring of bright stage lights, and Jason bears teeth in a grin that is entirely wicked. He shuffles back into his high kneel, expression smug until the stage hand reaches down and seizes the blindfold at his neck. 

The pool of Jason’s stomach chills a bit when he remembers the strip of cloth, but he’s hardly given an opportunity to protest as the stage hand loops its over the bridge of his nose and pulls it tight against the back of his hair. Makes a point of angling his crown back against the pole, exposing the column of his throat. It draws a growl up from Jason’s chest, the sound an irritable warning, but the stage hand merely cinches the knot and makes a swift departure. 

Whoever his supposed bratty sub is, they don’t make themselves known immediately. Jason fills the silence by shimmying lazily down the pole, letting his shoulders fall open and low. Makes a show of demonstrating exactly how unperturbed he is by the fact that he can’t see a goddamn thing. It’s an easy role to fall into; he’s pretty domineering when he’s on stage, commanding the attention of his audience with every flex and smirk. When he’s performing, Jason _ demands _ reverence, reminds everyone exactly why they’re here, at _ his _ stage, watching him. Like he’s a gift. Like seeing him is a goddamn privilege. 

It’s a far cry from Jason’s earlier work. It brings its own rush of power, its own control. No matter that everyone’s here to see exactly as much of his skin as they possibly can, at the end of the day, Jason can throw in the towel whenever he likes. He doesn’t owe them a damn thing. He has control over who he is and what he wears and what he does, and there’s not a damn thing anyone can do to make him do otherwise. He prefers the pole, honestly. 

Even here, on his knees, chained to a stage, Jason _ feels _ in control. So he lets that power roll through him, broadcasting his nonchalance as the crowd softens to a muted murmur. 

That’s the cue for Jason’s dear partner to make their entrance, he’s sure. A few bubbles of intrigue rise from the audience, but Jason can’t discern footsteps above the sound of the bassline starting up. It’s perky, the synth bouncing brightly in Jason’s eardrums. It sounds like the sort of song a goddamn Cali barbie would be blasting from her convertible, not a seedy strip club in downtown Gotham. 

“_Party at the beach down in Copacabana_,” the music croons, “_Sipping Killepitsch, got my black yoga pants on_.” 

He doesn’t know how the hell this song is supposed to drip the pure BDSM-vibes Subday calls for, but apparently the crowd doesn’t mind the intervention from the standard leather-and-whips Jason usually flaunts. 

Jason cranes his neck, trying to discern where his partner is. He can tell they’re on stage by the excited trills and whistles of the audience, but the direction of the calls doesn’t offer him any hints. Not until the man wraps a hand around the pole above his head. 

Jason feels the metal bow slightly under the weight as his partner leans down behind him, feels the proximity when he drags his mouth a sheer inch off the line of Jason’s jaw, taunting. He turns his head to follow the movement, but the man pulls away before he can even catch a whiff of glitter glue. 

“_Drop it down with your hands up,_” the song continues, and his partner must do something fantastic with the single-handed grip he’s got on the pole, because the crowd swells into a cheer. “_Do a handstand, bend it back, put your legs up._” 

Jason can’t help but feel he’s being left out of the joke. 

He’s almost relieved when the slim fingers of one hand thread through his hair, pulling his head back against what feels like a hip. 

“Hey, Daddy,” a voice purrs, breath warm on the shell of Jason’s ear. It reverberates through the speakers that hang above the stage, amplified tenfold. He must be wearing a mic, Jason realises, and feels a thrill of excitement at the prospect. 

They don’t usually wear mics on stage; their clothing is usually too loud to justify it, and there’s just too much opportunity for feedback when you’re dangling from the top of an eight foot pole. Which means if Yolanda’s mic'd this kid up, he’s got something worthwhile to say. 

Jason lets his lips curl back in a coy grin, turning into what feels like a leer. “There’s my little slut,” he purrs, dipping low into his vocal range, and nails scrape lightly across his scalp as that grip constricts. 

Then it pulls away, the mystery man straightening. “How’re you feelin’ tonight, Daddy?” 

Jason waits until they finish trailing fingertips over the shoulder of his jacket, until he feels them crouch down to eye level in front of him. He can imagine what their ass looks like if they’re squatting like that, even without knowing what they’re wearing, because the crowd goes _ wild_. 

They lay an unexpectedly cold palm against the side of Jason’s neck, subtly turning him towards where the mic must be pinned. Jason can hear his own voice echo when he says, tone low and thrumming with barely concealed warning, “To be honest, baby, I’m feeling a bit hard done by. What’s the deal with the cuffs, baby?” 

He hears the soft huff of laughter as that hand peels away. “Just knew you couldn’t keep your hands off me, Daddy. Was I wrong to tie you up? Was that _ bad? _” 

The word is drawled, dragged out until it’s dripping with coy derision, and Jason feels his grin hitch an inch higher when he replies, the threat blatant now, “Oh, baby, you’re gonna get _ spanked _ for this.” 

His partner straightens, knees popping softly when he rises. Jason hears the pout in his tone, making every word a tease. “Not yet, Daddy. I’m having _ too much fun_.” 

He sounds like a goddamn bratty sub, no question. The kind of backtalker that Jason would have to bend over his knee before he kowtowed. He doesn’t get the opportunity to voice that sentiment before nails are slicing over his cheekbone, yanking off the blindfold. 

Jason’s eyes adjust in a spare few seconds, but it takes his brain nearly a full minute to reconcile the sight before him. 

It’s fucking _ Teddy _ standing before him, hip cocked like he’s the hottest thing to hit Gotham since the heatwave of ‘92. He’s switched out his signature namesake lingerie for a completely new style, and he looks like a completely different person. Jason drags his gaze leisurely up the mesh of the fishnets tucked into what look like custom Doc Martens, to the drawstring of his high-waisted black booty shorts. There’s a white stripe that cleaves apart the hips of the dark material, and Jason’s gaze shifts to where it bunches at the band resting over his navel. It’s the sort of inexplicable thing that makes Jason want to lean forward and dip his tongue into the skin, just to hear the man yelp. 

He’s caught glances of the kid half-dressed around the joint, but never like this, peaked abdominals illuminated by the stage lighting. Jason can safely admit the kid is _ ripped. _ It’s not the sort of hard muscle Jason boasts; it’s soft and fluid and rolls the pale skin over those taut tendons when he shifts his weight to the other hip. 

That’s when Jason notices the rope. Bright, blood-red, and criss-crossing over the rises of Teddy’s ribcage, spinning down into a diamond that disappears where the V of his hips meets the shorts. He’s wearing a skin-tight sleeveless black crop top that barely clears his diaphragm, and the thin spirals of braided rope twine over this too. They meet in a neat red ring directly over his sternum, and Jason can see some of the strain in those cords against the tight material, his enthralled gaze tracing where they wind over his shoulders and around his torso. 

There’s a thin black choker strapped over his throat, looking _ painfully _ tight, and straining with every tilt of his lazy head. His hair’s been fluffed and feathered until it nearly floats around his crown, over the curve of razor-sharp eyeliner and baby pink lip gloss. As Jason watches with mute awe, he lifts what looks to be a frappuccino cup in his hand, tongue dipping out to snag the straw and tug it between those pert lips. His throat, that choker, flexes tight when he swallows, gaze lacerating Jason where he kneels beneath him. 

He looks fresh, and modern, and like an _ absolute _ brat, in every sense of the word. 

Jason aches to be able to wrap his hands over those narrow hips, thread his fingers into that tantalising rope, fucking _ bend _ this little shit over. Make him take it till he can’t give anymore. 

Teddy’s lips quirk around the straw when the chain brings Jason up short, as if he can read every single filthy thought racing through Jason’s skull. He purses his lips, turning back over his shoulder to grin maliciously at the audience when he says, “Bad luck, Daddy,” and upends the cup of ice and water over Jason’s head. 

It’s like being fucking tased. The ice cascades down into the collar of his jacket, licking down Jason’s spine like a thousand frozen tongues. He snaps rigid immediately, chain ringing loudly when he reflexively tries to bring his cuffed hands into alignment. 

He’s vaguely aware of the crowd screeching with glee, drinking every second as Teddy laughs coyly and tosses the now empty prop into the audience before turning back to Jason. Drags a thumb down the wet slick of Jason’s chest, cants sideways to swipe it over his exposed nipple, pressing hard against the steel barbell there. A delicious flicker of warmth flares up from the ice-cold touch, making Jason’s lungs shudder when he takes in a deep breath.

“Like that, Daddy?” 

Jason can’t find the words. They’re there, a hundred biting responses for what he’s going to do to this little _ brat _ when he gets his hands free, but they stall on the back of his tongue and choke him up. 

Teddy grins, thoroughly enjoying the sight of Jason - bound, on his knees, speechless - and slides his hand around the back of Jason’s neck as he slides down to his knees too. He crooks his thighs to either side of Jason’s hips, using the grip he’s got on Jason to leverage himself up against Jason’s bared abs. Grinds filthily down the length of Jason’s torso, bracketing him with his slim legs. 

“Daddy,” he whines, brow pinching to cement the fantasy as he shimmies over Jason’s waist. “Tell me what you want, Daddy. Tell your special baby boy what you want him to do to you.” 

He _ wants _ to be alone right now, unchained and unfettered by this mission. He wants this little cocktease underneath him, begging and mewling, _ whining _ Jason’s name, his _ real _ fucking name. He wants to know Teddy’s real name too, where he’s from, what kind of dreams he has outside this stage and gilded palace of sin. He wants to say what he’s been denying to himself - that he wants him and that he wants Teddy to want him too. It’s such a simple luxury, but Jason knows deep down he can’t risk it. Not when he knows what can happen to people you care about in his line of work. 

For the barest second, Jason hates this farce. Hates this dance they’re embroiled in, how they’re circling each other, never touching, never fucking _ real. _ He hates the smeared facade of Gotham, hates the glimmering lie plastered over its fading, chipped brick. He hates this city. What it does to people, what it’s done to _ him_. 

For a single moment, Jason wants it all to be as raw as him. Wants it to feel as real as it does for him. 

Then it snaps, the moment passing, and Jason’s still on his knees, still aching for the man pressed up against him, still desperate to have his mouth on those tantalising glimpses of skin, to have Teddy’s mouth on _ him_. 

“_You _ little _ brat,_” is what breathes out through Jason’s lips, clipped on the exhale. 

Teddy’s smirk is nothing short of predatory. He slides down to all fours, holding Jason’s gaze, unblinking as he gives the audience an unreserved view where the shorts ride up over his ass. He rolls smoothly onto his back, spreading his thighs as he curls his spine off the stage, arching towards Jason, out of reach. 

He slides just as smoothly back up to his hands and knees, this time facing the audience, ass presented for Jason’s fettered pleasure. He shimmies luxuriously, laying his temple down against the stage as he says breathlessly into the mic, “What’s the matter, Daddy? You wanna spank your boy? C’mon, Daddy, I want it. _ Spank me, _ Daddy.” 

Those fishnets are pulled taut over the creamy skin of Teddy’s bared thighs, the flesh bulging through the mesh, begging for bruises in the shape of Jason’s fingerprints. 

Jason doesn’t bother with his dignity anymore. He can’t think beyond the roar of blood in his ears, the thrum of his pulse against his skull deafening. He’s always leapt first and thought later. No matter how hard he tried to train it out of himself, instinct never went away. Not when he was this wired up, one trigger away from exploding. 

He surges up high onto his knees, chest heaving, toes gaining the traction he needs as he charges forward with all the strength that lies beneath his battle-hardened body. At the last second he realizes he can’t just go breaking props - or god forbid, Yolanda’s pole - so he shifts his weight down, hips jutting out as he relaxes his arms, praying he doesn’t do any lasting damage. The chain clangs like lightning and the pole thunders like a storm, but it _ holds_. The effect it has on the crowd is immediate, a collected gasp that drops into stunned silence. 

Then it shatters into a roar of delighted screams, with peals of wolf whistles blaring into a pitch that makes Jason’s ears ring like a detonated bomb. 

He hasn’t looked away from Teddy’s ass for even a second, and he can feel his lips tearing back over his teeth. Hungry to sink into the inviting display offered up, if he could only reach the plate. 

The picture they must make, if only the audience knew. In this moment Jason allows himself to want, body bowing in on itself, curling as close as he can towards Teddy.

“Oh, you’re _ gonna get it_,” he promises darkly, fists unclenching. 

Teddy just laughs, shimmying over onto his back and lacing his ankles around Jason’s neck. He yanks, hard, and Jason grunts as he's leveraged down towards the enticing arch of Teddy’s sternum, chain straining. 

Teddy trails his hands up his own sides under Jason’s burning gaze, tweaking the material over his shirt where his nipples are. He flashes a blinding smile up at Jason, all teeth, and flexes up, navel skirting dangerously close to Jason’s mouth. 

“I can take it, Daddy, I promise. Give it to me.” 

Jason holds his stare, dipping down with exaggerated slowness to drag his tongue up the front of Teddy’s crotch. 

Teddy shudders, eyes blowing wide. His thighs clench reflexively around Jason’s temples when Jason curls the slick muscle back behind his lips, smirking darkly. 

Jason jerks his chin up the barest amount, and Teddy’s gaze flickers up to the pole behind him, before he nods once. Jason leans down as far as he can manage, his face flush to Teddy’s abdomen as his thighs sure against Jason’s ears, sandwiching him. He waits until he feels Teddy’s heels bite into the jacket between his shoulder blades, waits for that strip of perfect stomach to tense, before he leverages them both up. 

Teddy’s hands jump to the pole immediately, relieving Jason of the strain for the last few inches as he rights them both. 

And then Jason’s on his knees, _ still _ bound to the goddamn pole, with Teddy’s thighs over his shoulders and a faceful of the smaller man’s crotch. _ Holy fuck_, he thinks, and dips down to mouth up the outline of Teddy’s cock. 

Teddy yelps, the sound sharp when it blares through the speakers, and jolts. Then he’s squirming down, grinding back against Jason’s teeth and tongue as he grips the pole with white-knuckled fervour. 

“Daddy, Daddy, please, yeah, Daddy, _ please,_” he babbles, even though all Jason’s practically done is breathe on his dick. He grinds shamelessly against Jason’s face, knocking his skull back against the pole with the force of it, but Jason doesn’t mind. 

Everyone can simultaneously see everything and nothing at all, not with Teddy’s thighs bracketing his face. He breathes in deep, flooding his senses with the scent of sweat and fruity body spray. Teddy’s own musk is thick and cloying, making Jason’s mouth water against the front seam of those booty shorts, spotting the material. 

If only they weren’t on stage in front of countless strangers right now, Jason would have long since snapped the restraints and swallowed Teddy whole. His face is warming at the thought, wondering if the kid tastes as good as he smells right now. His hands itch to take hold of his pert little ass, tear down the barrier of his shorts to feel the lines of the red rope bondaged over his milky flesh. 

_ I can take it, Daddy, I promise. Give it to me. _Teddy’s sweet cry echoes in his memory, driving him insane. 

_ Jason can’t take it _, finally manages to get enough space for his mouth to reach the end of Teddy’s cock where it’s bulging against his shorts. He takes the tip into his mouth, fabric and all, and sucks it hard in a punishing pulse before clenching his teeth ever so gently over it in a featherlight bite. 

Teddy arches sharply, smothering Jason between the pole and the heat of him for a brief moment before he shudders and unwinds. Awareness floods Jason as he remembers where they are, _ on stage_, in front of other people. The fact that he just overstepped a boundary burns shamefully in his chest and Jason tries not to let the wash of guilt sink too deep under his skin. 

He relinquishes his hold, mouth snapping shut as he looks upwards to meet Teddy’s pretty blues, trying to convey his penitence. “_Sorry,_” Jason mouths, setting his shoulders to make the kid’s dismount easier. 

Teddy unhooks one leg, sliding it back down until his heel is flat to the timber. The other he keeps slung over Jason's shoulder, holding him in place as he gives two slow, reprimanding grinds down his face. His heel works a bruise into the small of Jason’s back, making him arch up into the heat between those thighs. Jason takes it with open-mouthed reverence, mesmerised by the drag of Teddy’s clothed cock over his lips. He’s as amazed that this is happening as their audience.

When Teddy steps back off Jason, it’s only so he can push to his toes and bend himself over Jason's shoulder with a drawled, “Missed you, Daddy. So good to your special boy.” 

The arches of his hips bite into Jason’s collarbone, his toes straining to push his ass directly beside Jason’s face as he wiggles coyly for the audience. 

Jason’s just awestruck at how much the man’s managing to wring out of the performance. So when Teddy wraps a firm hand around the cuff on his right wrist, Jason jolts his shoulder upwards sharply, jostling him. 

Teddy’s boots part from the floor with a yelp of surprise that morphs into a shout when Jason turns and seizes a mouthful of his exposed thigh, biting hard. He gets a mouthful of fishnet for the effort, but it's worth it to feel Teddy’s toes scrape the timber desperately when he squirms. 

A whine rings up through Teddy’s throat, hovering somewhere down near Jason’s ass, and Jason smirks around the plump flesh caught between his teeth when the speakers amplify it. 

“_Daddy_,” Teddy moans, melting against the line of Jason’s body even as he finishes unbuckling the cuff. 

Jason’s hand snaps up the second it’s free, forearm wrapping over Teddy’s straining thighs to pin him down. He slides up to his full height, his knees protesting from bearing his weight for so long as he stands. Jason ignores Teddy’s panicked grab for the pole, bringing his still-cuffed wrist up to knead Teddy’s ass firmly. 

He makes pointed, coy eye-contact with the audience when he leans in to lick a stripe up the length of Teddy’s thigh, grip suring when the smaller man chokes and squirms under the attention. Jason drags his teeth down the soft flesh, letting his incisors snag tantalisingly in the tights as he descends. 

Teddy mewls, reaching back swiftly, but Jason just lifts his uncuffed hand to intercept, switching grips with a grunt as he twists the limb up into the small of Teddy’s back. Teddy whines with dismay when he does, slumping against him. Jason grins. 

“Yeah, that’s it, baby,” he purrs, and presses a kiss to the junction of his ass and thigh, chuckling when Teddy shudders. “Time to take your punishment like a good little boy.” 

Teddy gives a wordless whine, wrist twisting experimentally against Jason’s grip, knuckles pressed tight to his spine. Jason hums, lips pressed to the curve of his hip as he takes in the length of chain. 

“Hold still, baby boy,” he orders, tone thrumming with warning, and feels Teddy stiffen where he’s draped over his shoulder. “Wouldn’t want to drop my special boy, now.” 

Then he shifts his grip on that captive wrist, canting until he can slot the empty cuff around it. Teddy kicks out a little bit when he realises, the nails of his free hand biting into Jason’s bare skin where his palm’s shoved flat to Jason’s spine for balance. 

Jason just wraps his teeth around another handful of plump thigh, closing like an inexorable vice until Teddy groans and slumps, going lax. The cuff is buckled closed with rigorous efficiency, the chain shifting to dangle down the cleft of that pert ass - so Jason shifts the grip of his shackled wrist down to the back of Teddy’s right knee. It pulls the chain taunt, making Teddy arch under the sensation, hips twitching, and Jason nips his way down that pinned thigh. 

“You gonna take your punishment well, baby? I did promise you a spanking.” 

Teddy twitches when he says that, sucking in a sharp breath that makes Jason's intrigue flare bright. 

He nuzzles into the curve of Teddy’s ass, inching towards that chain as he squirms minutely. “But maybe you’d enjoy that too much, huh, baby boy?” 

“Please, Daddy,” he mewls breathlessly, hand shifting down to grip the waistband of Jason’s leather pants when he adjusts him roughly on his shoulder. “I’ll be good, I promise.” 

Jason smirks, chuckling as he drags featherlight fingertips over the indents his teeth have left on pale skin. “Knew you could be a _ good boy._” 

He drops his weight without warning, jerking his shoulder out from under Teddy’s stomach to let him slip back to the stage in a no-doubt dizzying rush. Teddy screams sharply, the sound snapping off when he hits the timber, staggering with the momentum. Jason wastes no time in yanking at the chain that joins them, spinning Teddy around with a firm, guiding hand on his waist. 

He gets tangled in his own legs when Jason twists him to face the crowd, and it’s all too easy for Jason to follow him down, folding the smaller man to his knees. 

Jason layers his weight over Teddy’s smaller frame, pinning his chest to the stage as Jason’s cuffed arm snaps out to brace them. His other jerks down to wrap over Teddy’s hip, yanking his pelvis up and back into his crotch. Teddy gives a sharp, keening whine at the force, nails carving into the timber as Jason locates the mic and leans down next to his throat. 

“There’s my little _ slut,_” he growls, punctuating the epithet with a snap of his hips. Teddy chokes and withers, held up by the bruising grip on his hip. 

“All yours, Daddy,” he gasps, lashes fluttering, and Jason can’t help but think what one _ hell _ of an actor the kid is. 

He lets a dark chuckle curl up through his throat, noticing when Teddy shudders against him. “You’ve been a downright brat, baby,” he croons, and grinds down, forcing Teddy to follow the roll of his hips before he drags them back up to where they hover over the wood. “All this acting out. Such _ bad _ behaviour. What’ve you got to say for yourself?” 

When Teddy opens his mouth to answer, Jason cants sideways and cracks his hand down over the curve of Teddy’s ass. 

“_Daddy,_” the smaller man screams, hips jerking hard towards the wood. Jason catches him before he can so much as grind his dick against the timber, robbing him of the friction. 

The crowd has settled now, a hushed anticipation blanketing the dark room behind the stage. Nobody cares that this scene has carried on long past the usual fifteen minute mark. The audience is captive and on the edge of their seats with their servers gawking instead of working. Everyone is waiting for the final shoe to drop. Jason catches Tommy in his left peripheral just beyond the curtain, a few of the other strippers huddled behind him. His red lips are an open ‘o’ of shock and awe, eyes gleaming with sudden understanding.

This isn’t a show, not anymore. 

Jason swallows, feeling the drag against his suddenly parched throat. He suddenly feels exposed, and he’s not even naked. He needs to end this now, before he loses himself even further in this hopeless attraction. He doesn’t give the kid a warning before he twines his fingers into the bondage ropes laced up his back. An experimental tug later, he’s satisfied they’re sturdy enough for what he has in mind.

He surges to his feet, easily hauling the kid off the floor like a naughty puppy in it’s harness with one hand. Teddy’s hands scrabble in the air, the toes of his doc martens squeaking as they brush the floor. Confusion is flashing over the man’s features, dangling from Jason’s grip helplessly as he tries to find equilibrium. 

To wrap up the scene, he hefts the kid up, tucking his smaller frame neatly under his arm and ruffles his soft hair. Then Jason flashes one last smile at the awestruck audience and declares, “Some behaviour just needs a little more hard lovin’,” before carrying him offstage. 

He does take the time to slow down as he passes Tommy, drinking in the half-ecstatic, half-dismayed bellows of the crowd as he grabs the riding crop the other man is holding in his slack grip. It slides into his palm without resistance, and Jason throws one last wink at the audience before moving out of view. 

Making sure to angle Teddy’s microphone just right - and angle the man himself out of view behind the curtain - Jason smacks the crop heavily against a nearby stack of tumbling mats, the crack similar enough to an actual spanking. Teddy twitches beneath his arm at the sound, sucking in a sharp breath that has the heat flaring in Jason's gut again. 

The audience roars their applause for the effort, several hollering suggestions for an encore filtering through the rapidly closing curtains as Jason offers the crop back. Tommy takes it back wordlessly, glancing between Teddy and Jason both, eyes sparkling. 

“Now how am I supposed to go onstage after _ that__?_”

* * *

It’s only when Jason gets off the stage and down into the relative privacy of the pit that he sets Teddy down, mindful of the man’s limbs. He finds his feet steadily enough, though he looks a bit awestruck, still basking in the energy of their performance. 

If he’s being honest, Jason is too. He hasn’t felt that sort of easy connection with another person since… well, since he was Batman’s Robin. The way that he and Teddy bounced off each other, fed each other’s intrigue to create that performance - and off the cuff, no less - is a testament to how much more comfortable they are around each other now. Jason’s not quite sure when they clicked, but it feels seamless when he reaches down to brush a stray strand of hair off the man’s cheekbone. 

Jason feels an unbidden surge of protectiveness for the scantily-clad man, a wave of pride washing through him when he remembers that that was only Teddy’s second time on stage, and damn, but the kid’s a _ natural. _

It makes Jason feel possessive of the smaller man, and it’s not until he glances up to see one of the stagehands glowering at them to get out of the way of the racks of costumes he’s bustling that Jason recognises it for what it is. Doesn’t pinpoint it as possessiveness until he presses a palm firmly into Teddy’s spine and glares right back at the pimple-faced jackass, vindicated when the stagehand cowers a little and skirts around them warily. 

Guilt is swift and chilling, the realisation that - intentionally or not - he’s carrying their personas beyond the parameters of their scene, that he’s dragging his personal shit into their professional lives. Jason knows better than to carry that sort of assumption with him, knows that he has to leave it on the stage, even if he desperately wishes he could bundle Teddy up right now and sweep him off his feet. 

Teddy is staring up at him with an unreadable look, and Jason winces internally. 

“Back this way,” he explains, taking his hand, and leads him to the dressing room which is blessedly deserted. All the dancers are on the floor or in queue for the stage tonight, and there are no prying eyes here. Jason needs privacy to have this conversation with Teddy; much as he wants to maintain this decadent illusion for just a little longer, Jason knows he has to clear the air between them after such a charged scene. 

Jason drags him over to the vanity with the grip around his wrist, noting Teddy’s bewildered expression as it tracks over the room. He realises belatedly that the kid’s probably never been back here; it must all be new to him, and Jason belatedly wishes he’d thought of somewhere more comfortable to have this discussion. 

As soon as they’re in front of Jason’s dresser, he presses Teddy back onto the stool, sitting on his heels to match the smaller man’s height. 

“Hey,” Jason says softly, chest unexpectedly tight with apprehension. Teddy glances down at him and frowns at his tight expression. “Are you okay?” 

Teddy arches a brow. “I- yeah, I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be?” 

“You can tell me if you’re not, I’m not going to get offended,” Jason presses on, insistently. “If there was anything about that performance that made you uncomfortable, I want to talk about it.” 

Teddy’s brows lift in surprise. “_Oh_. No, no, everything was,” he pauses to flush a rosy red, “really great, actually.” 

Jason doesn’t let up just yet. “We didn’t get to negotiate on the performance. Normally I’d check what my partner was comfortable with before doing a routine that heavy with them. I don’t usually improvise on stuff like that.” 

The sensation of Teddy beneath him, panting against the stage as Jason’s hand cracked down on the firm skin of his ass fills his mind, and Jason winces. Meets Teddy’s bemused expression with one of sincere remorse. 

“If I did _ anything _ that upset you, or made you uncomfortable in any way, _ please _ tell me so I can apologize to you,” Jason begs, and Teddy lurches forward to seize his hands with a tight smile. 

“Jack,” he insists earnestly, holding Jason’s dumbfounded stare, “I’m fine, I promise. I had a _ really _ great time up there. We… we work really well together, huh?” 

Relief curls up through Jason’s chest slowly, and he feels a smile tugging into his lips. “Yeah,” he breathes. “Yeah, I… that was a lot of fun. We should do that more often.” 

Teddy bites his lower lip, inhaling sharply.

“_Work together _ more often,” Jason stresses hurriedly. “Do another routine. Not, uh, not that other… we work really well together,” he finishes lamely, and is relieved to find Teddy’s still beaming. He can feel his face growing hot under the scrutiny, lowering his gaze to try and wrestle back control of his emotions. The rope looped over Teddy’s chest is most certainly not helping, and now the heat is spreading to his ears, _ damnit_. 

Then he notices the flush on Teddy’s own cheeks, the exhilaration in those bright blue eyes. The way the man coils, like he’s riding on ten thousand volts and his veins are singing with the same thrill Jason’s are. 

He is fucking screwed, because Teddy’s fingers brush over his cheekbones, his cool, callused hands cupping his jaw. Flicking his gaze up he swallows audibly when he realizes he’s practically squatting between the kid’s legs.

“Uhm,” he mumbles stupidly, as they lean towards one another, planting his hands on the smaller man’s thighs for counter balance. Breaking Teddy’s contact would be so easy, but Jason can’t bring himself to do anything but let the kid pull him closer, lining their mouths up-

“_There _ you are!” Yolanda proclaims with broad exasperation, striding across the room to meet them. Jason jerks back quickly, spell broken. Teddy’s hands float in midair for a moment, looking just as disappointed and surprised as he is. Shifting to stand, Jason watches Yolanda stride right past him, her hand patting his broad chest lightly as she passes.

She plants herself before Tim with an exhilarated gleam to her eyes. “You gotta get topside pronto, sweetcheeks. We need you on the floor to soak up all that attention.”

“What?” Teddy sounds floored. She laughs, tossing back her meticulous curls as she surveys him hungrily. 

Jason grins at the dumbfounded man. “Hear that? You’re an instant star, _ baby boy_.” 

Teddy flushes, head ducking, but it’s not enough to hide his smile. 

“And you,” Yolanda says, turning on Jason. “Talk about a showstopper. I need to give you more rope, if that’s what you do with it, Jackie.” 

Jason’s mind wanders to unfair places. There’s a lot he could do with a coil of rope and Teddy’s eager body beneath his palms; Yolanda really has no idea. He pointedly does not look at the red cords currently pulled taut over Teddy’s skin, though his brain still helpfully supplies an unfettered image of how each twist and knot was created to accent Teddy’s figure. Of how high the possibility is that that soft twine is looped between his legs and running up his backside like a makeshift thong, hidden beneath the thin layer of those booty shorts. 

“I want you up there too,” Yolanda says sternly, snapping Jason’s attention firmly back to the present. “Play up the crowd a bit, show them a good time. Just keep up the act you two had up there, play your roles.” 

Yolanda hooks a finger into the ring of red rope strained over Teddy’s chest, tugging lightly. Enough that the man squirms slightly on the stool as she analyses his outfit. 

“Let me go get a leash.” 

Jason chokes, watching her dash away to props, sputtering. He glances back at Teddy, gaze locking onto the harness of ropes before looking back up to him, helpless as Teddy when she returns with a black leather leash. She snaps it to the circle of rope at the center of Teddy’s chest, winking as she gives it an experimental tug. 

“There we go. Now you can keep your baby boy on a short leash.” 

Jason accepts the lead as she drops it into his numb palm, wrapping it around his fist twice to shorten the length a little. He has had some practice with this part of the sets, but he can’t help but think of Black Mask when it comes to fetish gear sometimes. Especially when busting up some of his rings in his early days shed light on how much some of his enforcers got off to it all. 

Shaking off a shudder he lightly tests the lead with a gentle tug. Teddy doesn’t resist, moving with the pull and climbing tentatively to his feet. 

Jason meets his gaze, letting the leash gather some slack as Teddy plays absently with the clip. “Are you okay with this?” 

Teddy considers for a moment, before venturing, “Yeah, I think I am. Just for tonight, right?” 

“If you want to stop at any time, you just have to signal me. Do you want to choose a safeword?” Jason asks as they head topside, Teddy falling pliantly into step beside him. Like he really is Jason’s sub for the night. _ Christ, _ he’s getting in over his head. “I usually use the stoplight system because it’s easiest.” 

“Sounds like good practice,” Teddy says, smiling slowly to himself. He tilts his head to offer Jason a strangely knowing smile. “A good way to get to know more about each other. Take the lead.” 

Jason swallows, suddenly nervous, and nods. “Yeah, sounds good.” 

They ascend the stairs in relative silence, before Teddy stops him behind the Pit curtain with a hand to his stomach. His blue eyes are imploring when he asks, “I didn’t even think to ask you; are you alright with the nicknames we chose? Because if they make you uncomfortable, I can use something other than Daddy-” 

Jason’s struck by the consideration, the sincerity in the knot of Teddy’s brow. So he snorts, settling into Jack Dickinson’s persona. “And miss out on the opportunity to spoil my boy?” He sobers briefly to add, “If you’re happy with it, I am too, angel.” 

Teddy beams at him, eyes glimmering in the film lights. Then he shifts his weight, sliding effortlessly into the posture of a challenging but subdued brat, lashes fluttering to half mast. “I trust you. Ready when you are, Daddy.” 

That smile is recklessly contagious, because Jason feels his lips curl into a responding grin. He tugs the smaller man a half step closer, sweeping the curtains open as he says, “Knock ‘em dead, baby.” 

* * *

Jason all but faceplants into his bed when he returns home at a wee hour of dawn, not exhausted physically, but mentally. It’s all fun and games on Subday, but this time he really enjoyed himself. He mumbles to himself, shifting to check the time on the clock radio. He should set an alarm for noon, since he does have some things to check out today before work, but he’s so comfortable he doesn’t want to move. 

The image of Teddy, strolling confidently beside him around the house floor, climbing into his lap every time Jason had been beckoned into a booth by a patron, hovers on the backs of his eyelids. The wicked flutter of his lashes, the curve of those lips as he’d leaned himself forward onto both elbows. The tantalising tug of Jason’s helpless gaze down to the dip of his spine, pale skin glowing where it’s exposed to the roaming lights. 

“Did you enjoy the show?” he’d asked a group of giggling bridesmaids, grinding lightly into Jason’s lap. The roll of his hips as he straightened and layered himself back over Jason’s chest, chin tipping back over the larger man’s shoulder, had been cruelly distracting. “Daddy doesn’t let me out to play often. But he said if I’m on my _ best behaviour _ maybe I’ll get a reward after. Isn’t that right, Daddy?” 

The rest of the night had blurred around the smaller man, smearing across Jason’s memory until he was the only shining beacon of clarity. Jason had followed him like a puppy, as much bound by his leash as Teddy was. 

A few times he’d found himself slipping back into worry, concerned that he was going to do something to upset the younger man, push some limit he didn’t know he was up against. But apparently Teddy was a mindreader as well as a natural performer, because he’d turned to beam at Jason when a patron had offered him a tray of jello shots, and said with emphasis, “I’ll take the _ green _ one, if that’s okay, Daddy?” 

Jason had smiled and squeezed down with the grip he’d had on the man’s hips, earning a sharp, aroused inhalation that had prompted a light shudder. “Yeah,” Jason had purred into his hairline, low and gravelly. For their patrons’ benefit, of course. “Lemme watch you suck something down, baby boy. Put those cute lips to good use.” 

He still can’t shove the sensation of Teddy shivering in his lap from his mind, the way the man had held his gaze as he’d swallowed down the shot. The way he’d preened beneath Jason’s approving attention, how he’d pushed for every one of Jason’s pulls, fitting them seamlessly together as the night had worn on. 

It had been a _ really _ good night. 

Jason sets his alarm, methodically, tossing it haphazardly back onto the nightstand. He huffs a sigh as he tosses and turns, ending up on his back to stare at the stains on his ceiling. Tonight had been the last nail in his coffin. 

“Damnit,” he breathes, not for the first time cursing Gotham City. This case was personal of course, trafficking cases always had his personal attention. It wasn’t supposed to get this close to him, however. 

He reaches up, slides his fingers over his lips, trying to remember the way Teddy’s mouth had plied so sweetly under his in a run down motel room. The roll of the boy’s body against his lap from then and tonight melds into one arousing flash of memory, making him ache so badly he feels bruised. 

_ I want him_, he thinks in the privacy of his own head.

Maybe he isn’t deserving of Teddy, but there isn’t any denying it anymore. _ Boyfriend. _ Teddy had said he was acting like a boyfriend… that… that he wouldn’t mind if he was his. That anyone he ended up with would be lucky. 

He snorts at that, amused. Luck was never on his side to begin with, not in his first life and it certainly wasn’t courting him in this one. He made his own luck usually, but he couldn’t see that working here. Something like a relationship wasn’t about luck. It was about consideration, it took effort. His life was dangerous, he had so many enemies and someone like Teddy, a civilian, was a huge liability. It wouldn’t be fair to Teddy to duck bullets without ever knowing what he’d signed up for.

_ Unless I quit. _

The thought is so abrupt it’s borderline intrusive, that his breath stalls for a moment. Even after everything, his death, rebirth, the falling from Bruce’s grace, not once has it ever crossed his mind to lay down his guns and walk away. It had been unthinkable, knowing what he did about the world and the evil people in it. This was a war, and someone had to fight it. He hadn’t thought twice about jumping back into the fray; he’d been damaged so much already - what was one more scar or broken bone to him? 

Nobody had ever made him feel like he was worth more than that. 

He takes a deep breath, sitting up to search for his phone. He’d exchanged numbers with Teddy recently, and bringing up the text conversation is easy. Typing his message is even easier… Hitting send?

It’s the hardest thing he’s done in recent memory. Terrifying, exhilarating, like flying on a grapnel for the first time not sure where he’ll land. He hesitates, staring at the screen until he gathers his nerve and presses send.

** _Can I be your boyfriend?_ **

* * *

Tim’s hair is still fluffy by the time he totters down into the Cave. He’d spent a good twenty minutes checking that he’d gotten _ all _ of his eyeliner off, pilfering some of Steph’s makeup wipes, before he’d headed over. He changes into some more comfortable sweats and declares the hair a lost cause. 

Tonight was… exhilarating. Having Jason follow his lead like that, _ respond _ to him so readily and eagerly, is enough to give Tim goosebumps. He’d been hoping he’d get a chance to show the stubborn man just how well they can work together, how well they suit each other. 

What he’d gotten had been in a whole other ballpark. And Tim would be lying if he didn’t feel somewhat possessive of what they had shared, of Jason. 

He’s still chewing through that sentiment when he notices he’s not alone. It’d been a few days, but Tim had still forgotten Dick’s mentioning of the man’s return to Gotham. Bruce is reclining in his chair, fingers steepled above his desk and gaze fixed on the screen. 

Tim manoeuvres around him to his own workspace, idly setting aside a coffee-stained mug to clear some room. There’s a window open on the main computer, green text flying by at a clip that can only be automated. It’s a prompt window, spitting code at an unnatural pace; a software scan then, probably. Tim knows because it’s the same window he’d used to wipe Jason’s file. 

Mouth suddenly uncomfortably dry, he settles in stoically at his own desk, focusing on keeping his breathing even, his expression unruffled. Despite his best efforts, Tim finds himself distracted by the ominous green, frowning down at his keyboard as he brings up his case notes. 

“Have you been using the computer?” Bruce asks absently, and Tim feels ice pool in his stomach. 

Lying isn’t going to get him far, and Bruce knows most of his nervous tells anyway. So Tim doesn’t lie. “Of course,” he answers, hoping his tone is level. 

“You haven’t noticed any suspicious activity, have you?” he presses, frowning at the diagnostic report as it scrolls past. Tim can feel sweat sliding cold down his spine. 

“Should I have?” 

Bruce turns to glance at him, gaze open and uncompromised, and Tim forces himself not to flinch under that gaze, despite how confused it makes him. If his tampering had been found out, Bruce would have been angrier. So why is he…? 

“The log registered an intrusion,” Bruce answers, swivelling back to the rolling report on the screen. Tim frowns. “It came from a localised Gotham device, once I’d decoded the cloaking. Based on the familiarity with which it penetrated our system, I’m inclined to believe it’s one of ours. I wanted to confirm you hadn’t attempted rogue remote access while on your mission.” 

Tim bites his tongue. He could say yes, laugh and apologize for being so careless. Take responsibility for the intrusion and the missing file, wipe Bruce’s suspicion clean. But… his program wouldn’t have registered as an intrusion. It shouldn’t have registered at all, if Tim’s worth his salt. One of the boons of earning Bruce’s trust is higher access to the Batcomputer’s backlogs and programming. At best, if Tim had somehow missed a mistake, it would have logged a system malfunction on an error code and filed it for later investigation. 

An intrusion is something else. Tim’s willing to bet any money it’s Roy Harper’s. 

Knowing the archer is currently in Gotham is the only explanation that serves him. He’s seen the man’s tech work before; he’s an ace at brute forcing a system, but unless he was already familiar with the computer’s coding like Tim is, he wouldn’t have noticed the silent security alarm he would have tripped when he’d slid in through a backdoor. It’s not sophisticated enough to track what he was trying to access beyond general commands, and Tim suspects he would have wiped his log on the way out anyway, so there’s no way Bruce is going to know what he was snooping around for. 

But the system will still have logged that he _ was _ snooping. And without knowing what sort of havoc Roy’s reaped on his little jaunt through Batman’s computer, Tim’s not willing to shoulder the blame for it. 

“No,” Tim says, and studies Bruce’s unwavering posture for any reaction. “I was in here the other night to put in my notes for the case, but other than that I’ve been undercover on the ground.” 

Bruce grunts in acknowledgement, and Tim feels an unexpected trickle of guilt. It’s swamped in the next second when Bruce asks, “How’s your mission going?” 

“It’s going.” Tim forces himself to turn away, going back to his task. “You know how it is. Patience is the name of the game.” 

He hears Bruce stand, stretch absently before he meanders over. Tim keeps his gaze on his own screen, pointedly focused. A hand settles on his shoulder, squeezing it in Bruce’s emotional equivalent of being supportive. The last time Bruce had touched him was to hug him after he came back to the cowl. After Tim had spent what felt like a lifetime scrambling around to bring him back. Then had felt real, sincere, like everything he went through was worth it. 

Now he isn’t sure. It takes all his will power to not shrink beneath the touch, offering a small smile for Bruce until he pulls away and takes his seat at the main chair - the throne, as Dick calls it. He’s been dreading this moment since he witnessed that conversation with Jason, when he had shown Tim the mirrored scar on his neck. It’s unthinkable that the man Tim had sacrificed so much for would have nearly broken his own oath against his own son. Difficult as Jason was and is, there is no mistaking Bruce intended to kill him with a strike against his throat like that. Someone like Bruce doesn’t just _ miss. _

How Jason survived his jugular being nearly slit, Tim doesn’t know, but he’s suppressing a shudder even thinking about it. He’s more than familiar with the sort of emotionless brutality Bruce can affect; more so than Dick or Damian even. _ He’d _ been the one to drag Bruce out of his post-Jason stupor. He’s seen the man at his most cruel, his most apathetic. He knows exactly what Bruce is capable. Knows the fine line the man toes whenever he dons the cowl. Knows how easy it would be for Bruce to go that inch too far, to take Jason’s life into his own sullied hands. 

“Tim?” Bruce sounds amused, the gravel of his voice an octave lighter than usual as he surveys Tim where he’s slumped over his desk. It snaps Tim back to the present with a jolt, and it takes all his willpower not to jerk his head around on trained instinct. An attentive Robin to his Batman. Old habits die hard, he supposes. 

“Hmm?” He hides the twitch by stretching in his chair. 

“You’ve been working this case of yours for a few weeks.” Bruce turns to look at him, eyes warm in the impassive mask of his face. Despite his best efforts, Bruce never was really able to drop the cowl in Tim’s presence. “Did you need some fresh eyes?” 

“No.” Tim says it too fast, too harsh. Bruce doesn’t react, at least not visibly. But Tim knows his tells just as well as Bruce knows his. So he sees the stiffening of his spine when he turns back to the screen, the twist of his knuckles where they’re interlinked over his stomach. Tim swallows, and forces out an exhale. “I’ve got this.” 

“Are you sure?” It’s aloof, suspended above derision, but Tim hears the thick dubiety all the same. He clenches his jaw and inhales, hands settling on the keys before him. 

Then he turns and affects his most sincerely tired smile, letting his eyelids droop with the weight of the early hour. “Yeah, I’ve got this, I promise. Thanks, Bruce. I appreciate the offer, but I’ve got a few leads of my own to look into.” 

When Bruce stills, digesting that, Tim gives him a spare moment before he chuckles softly, as close to shy embarrassment as he can force himself to muster, and continues. 

“I wanted to thank you, too, for trusting me with this case. I don’t know when the last time I took on a mission solo, without the Titans, was. So thank you for putting your faith in me. I won’t let you down.” 

Bruce visibly softens in Tim’s peripheral, studying him for a few moments as he tinkers with his case file, keys clacking. Then he sucks in a breath and straightens back into the stoic Bat. “Just make sure you contact me if you find yourself in too deep.” 

Tim smiles wryly at his screen, and doesn’t turn around. “I will, I promise.” 

It’s a few minutes more before Bruce logs out of his computer and pushes to his feet. His palm skims the back of Tim’s chair as he passes, but he doesn’t pause in his departure. Tim keeps his gaze on his screen, keeps his hands flying over the keys, for minute’s count before he slumps back in his chair. The tension washes out of him instantly, leaving him feeling staticky and hollow. 

Bruce trusts him, he knows that. Bruce has always trusted him, right from the moment he’d proven himself a capable Robin - a capable substitute for Jason. The skills, the knowledge, the experience - that had all come later. But Bruce has always put stock in Tim’s wit, in his resilience and his perceptiveness, in his dedication to the cause, in his willingness to see things through to the bitter end. 

Deep down, Tim knows they were the same qualities that drew him to Jason. 

Sometimes he wonders if he should feel angry about being the substitute, about being the replacement for someone so prodigal, so unreachable, as Jason. He knows his own worth, knows he has strengths where Jason lacks them. Knows he has weaknesses where Jason was flawless. Tim’s been who Bruce has needed him to be for so long that he doesn’t even see himself as the replacement most days. He’s just Tim, Batman’s placeholder Robin. The one who’d kept the scaly panties warm between his favourite son and his bloodson. 

Tim doesn’t mind, if he’s completely honest. He had _ wanted _ to be the placeholder, had wanted to be whoever Bruce needed to be, had wanted to be _ wanted _. 

He’s come a long way since then. Dick, the Titans, Young Justice - he has a lot to thank for the man he is today. He thinks he’d be a much more bitter man if left to Bruce’s devices for as long as Dick had, for as long as Jason has. 

Bruce does trust him, inexplicably, unwaveringly. Trusts Tim with his tech, and his family, and his _ life. _ Because Tim earnt it. Because Tim scoured every inch of time to _ prove _ himself trustworthy. 

It still frustrates him that Bruce can trust him so easily, but not Jason. 

After all the stories he’d heard, all the cautionary tales of the dead soldier, the prodigal son, this is what Bruce’s reverence of Jason had amounted to? Stripping him of his mantle. Exiling him from Gotham. Working against his methods because Jason’s approach to saving the city hadn’t aligned with Bruce’s own rigid morals. Leaving him in a pool of his own blood with a batarang in his throat. 

Reconciling the Bruce Tim knows, the Bruce he loves, the Bruce who loves him, with the image of that man… It’s too close to the Bruce he’d known before, the one jaded by the death of his son, the one with nothing left to lose, the one unbound by any moral code. It’s too… real. 

Tim exhales roughly, and glances at the Batcomputer, dormant now that its scan has finished amassing a comprehensive report of the intrusion. He can’t help but feel that despite how much progress he and Jason had made tonight, Bruce’s presence is an unwelcome spectre over Gotham. 

When his phone vibrates in his pocket, Tim jumps, fumbling to pull it out. It’s his burner cell, the one he’d picked up with what was spare of Jason’s money after the man had asked for his number. It’s empty but for a handful of faux contacts and a couple of placeholder texts, in case Jason ever felt the urge to check Teddy’s device for himself. 

One number is real though, and it’s currently blinking a notification back up at him, unmistakable in it’s intent. Tim feels heat crawl up his neck at the words, jaw slackening a little at the proposition. 

Can he…? 

“Drake.” 

The phone makes an awful crack when it hits his desk, and Tim scrambles to catch it before it hits the tile, glaring up through his lashes at his unannounced intruder. 

Damian stands at the foot of the stairs, dark turtleneck stark against his warm tone, making his posture look all the more severe in the harsh lighting. With a few more crucial teenage inches on him, he already cuts an imposing figure, chasing Bruce’s signature height with every year. His arms are crossed over his chest, but he doesn’t look confrontational beyond his usual charming demeanour. Tim counts it as a small blessing. 

“Am I interrupting?” he asks scathingly, evidently not looking for an answer as he meanders over to peer over Tim’s shoulder. He sets the phone aside hastily, but Damian’s gaze is levelled at his screen, dissecting his notes. 

“Can I _ help _ you?” Tim demands, jostling his chair enough to have Damian take a step aside. 

His gaze lowers to Tim, a crease appearing in his brow before he asks, “Is that glitter?” 

Every single one of his muscles locks. Tim doesn’t think he’s ever been more tense, and he’s been tased before. Several times, in fact. “What,” he says dumbly, as Damian’s nose scrunches, gaze narrowing in on the back of Tim’s neck. 

“Brown mentioned an erotic establishment on patrol the other night,” Damian admits crisply, and Tim feels horror blossom in his chest. 

“It’s- I’m not-” Tim tries, and manages to yelp, “it’s for a mission.” 

Damian scoffs. “Don’t be so appalled, Drake. I know what a gentleman’s club entails. You needn’t ‘protect’ me. I’m perfectly well-versed in the dealings of such a venue.” 

Tim can’t breathe past the mortification. “Whatever Steph told you-” 

“You shouldn’t feel the need to dismiss me, Drake,” Damian interjects with a wave of his hand. “I don’t care for such engagements myself. But I understand that men of your reputation have… urges to see to. You needn’t be ashamed.” He stiffens slightly, shoulders setting with some important revelation, and Tim thinks he might be trying to one of his signature ‘bonding moments’. Sometimes Tim misses the days when they’d just resolve their differences with their fists. “Each to their own, Drake.” 

If he could melt into the floor right now, Tim feels like he could solve a lot of his problems. Fortunately, Damian doesn’t require him to try to address that horrific can of worms. 

“Try not to make it a _ frequent _ indulgence, hmm, Drake?” he quips, and retreats to the training rooms. Tim keeps his face buried in his palms until he hears the muted thud of punches on padding. 

Then he snatches up his phone, logs out of his computer, and bolts up the stairs for a much more _ thorough _ shower. 

* * *

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song of the night is "Yoga" by Janelle Monáe. 
> 
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	7. Playboy Monday, Again

An unquantifiable amount of coffee, several hours, and a sleepless morning later, and Tim has the beginnings of his first real break in the case. 

This isn’t McClain’s first club, but Tim’s fairly certain it’s the first time the local mob’s shouldered in on his enterprise. As far back as Tim can see, McClain’s been running clean businesses down the East Coast. He’d set up a similar strip club in Bludhaven called _ Voyeur Vixen _three months before moving to greener pastures in Gotham, and another joint further north before that. 

Tim almost laughs at his naivety. Everyone knows the mobs take a cut in Gotham. It’s just a question of whose territory you set up shop in. 

The previous owner had been skimming profits into the Falcones’ pockets for nearly three years before McClain had stepped up to bat. It’s laughably easy to see why he’d folded to their demands upon taking over ownership of the Daily O. 

Tim had pulled McClain’s financial records, and then the files for the Daily O as well. They’re remarkably clean; whatever laundering the mob is using the club for, they’re doing it prettily. There’s hardly a dime out of place, from what Tim can see, every transaction qualified and quantified in near-spotless accounts. 

Which is why the six grand tax-free gift sticks out like a sore thumb. It’s about three months old, written into some management incentive scheme that never saw the light of day, and it never went into McClain’s account. 

It piques Tim interest immediately. There’s a tax windfall that’s been claimed against it, and some paperwork that stands up to scrutiny, so it doesn’t take Tim long to trace it back through taxation records to find that it didn’t show up in McClain’s account because it never went to McClain. All six thousand dollars found its way into Bianca Todahl’s medical expenses account, where it had been promptly chewed up for her dialysis treatment at the behest of her son, Zack Todahl. 

Tim leans back in his chair. There’s not a single shred of evidence to suggest there’s anything fishy about the transaction. It’s a lot, sure. But Zack _ had _ worked the Daily O for two years straight, with nary a sick day in sight. And his mother’s illness had made him a sympathetic cause. Maybe it had been an agreement to pay back Management outside the scope of the accounts; hiding mob loans in ‘gift’ money wouldn’t be new to Tim’s eyes. 

And Zack _ had _ been sniffing around credit loan companies and local sharks in the weeks leading up to his untimely death. With his savings chewed through with medical bills, maybe he’d been looking for more money to fund his mother’s treatment. 

It still doesn’t sit right with Tim. 

Why Zack? Why not any other employees? Twinka, who’s been at the club for going on his fourth year? Or Domi, who’d been working to clear his brother’s debts to an infringing mob? Why not Yolanda? Or Charla? Or any one of the club’s loyal, hardworking staff? 

It’s not that Tim doubts Zack’s work ethic. The guy was probably as dedicated as they came; he certainly had the incentive to provide for his mother. He just can’t see Management gifting an employee several grand out of the goodness of their own hearts, with a mob payday looming over their heads. 

Zack’s bank records have already been pulled by the cops who investigated his death, so it’s child’s play for Tim to yank them from his file with the GCPD. Zack’s transaction are almost as consistent as the Daily O’s; a recurring gym membership, the same groceries week in week out, and a slew of medical prescriptions for his mother. It’s not until Tim reaches the most recent page of transactions - which cease up to the date of his death but for one gym membership cancellation fee withdrawn two days later - that he spots a manual withdrawal actioned by the bank. 

It’s listed as a clerical error, and throws Zack’s meagre balance out by nearly eight thousand dollars. A deposit of Zack’s last paycheck from the Daily O, which was then rescinded within three days on the basis of ‘overpayment’. 

Combined with the six grand gift and the fact that the Daily O’s immaculate accountant doesn’t strike Tim as the kind of guy who’d miscount eight hundred as eight thousand, Tim thinks he’s pretty safe in assuming this isn’t a simple ‘clerical error’. For all intents and purposes, it’s certainly been made to look like one. 

Call it a hunch, but Tim’s pretty sure it’s a mob favour, filtered through Management’s payroll to dodge the suspicion that a direct transaction would raise. Clubs like the Daily O are more useful than just filtering pocket change through front of house, if your mob accountant knows their taxation laws and the legitimacy of a good tax free gift claim. It’s not a hard guess as to how Zack’s been paying for his mother’s dialysis on a server’s income either, now that Tim has the books in front of him. This eight grand smells like a mob loan all over. 

And then Zack had floated up in the harbour less than a week later. 

Tim just can’t work out _ why. _

What possible goal could the mob have in taking Zack out? Debtors are generally most fruitful when they’re _ alive _ to pay their debts. Zack’s debts had sunk with him; the mob wasn’t going to see that six grand any time soon. Not with his only relative being an ailing mother with barely any money to her own name. 

And it doesn’t _ look _ like a standard mob hit. The burnt off fingerprints and smashed in face are par for the course with mobs; disfiguring their victims sends a pretty clear message to other debtors considering skipping out on their debts. But gutting them? 

Tim’s seen maybe thirteen cases of mob dismemberment in his time as Robin. It’s usually reserved for the betrayals of high-ranking members, to dehumanise the traitors in true mafia fashion. Neither Zack nor Dominik had been dismembered; their murderers had been interested in internal disruption, not cosmetic disfigurement. 

And someone had taken the time to sew them both _ back up _ after harvesting their organs. Efficiently. Effectively. The same stitch pattern each time. 

It means that whichever doctor the mob is contracting, they’re returning to the same one with every kill. That’s a taught consistency, from practicing the same stitch over and over again. Clinical, learned. 

Maybe they’re trophies, Tim considers with a sigh, leaning back in his chair. The screen is starting to blur in front of him, an ache blooming behind his eyes. He’s been at it for the better part of the night and morning, so it’s hardly a surprise his body is insisting he rest. He massages the bridge of his nose, fumbling for his half-drunk coffee with the other. 

Mob trophies are rare, but not unheard of. Again, usually reserved for high-ranking kills, and neither Zack nor Dominik strike him as the kind to lead double lives as mob tenientes. Even if they’d taken offense at Dominik’s brother Francis operating on their turf, Tim doubts they’d go to the trouble of displaying Dominik as a warning. There are far more direct and more effortless ways of ensuring compliance from a rogue gang member. 

And something still doesn’t sit right with Tim about the loans. Mobs pick their targets carefully, and while Zack fits the textbook definition of a returning debtor, Tim can’t shake an unease about the frequency of the loans. Six thousand dollars is reasonable by mob standards; eight thousand on top of that, less than two months later? Either Zack was making some pretty compelling arguments to his shark, or he was doing favours. 

That’s generally how these debts play out, in Tim’s experience. Most of the grunts he takes down of a nightly bust are just debtors who got in too deep with the wrong crowd. Offering services to the mob seems like an easy compromise at the time, but Tim knows what sort of slippery slope that can be. Knows it’s all too appealing to a guy like Zack, who had watched that six grand sink almost instantly into medical treatments. Had probably been scrambling to find the next payday for his sick mother. 

Zack was probably doing the mob favours. To what end, Tim can’t fathom, but he’s sure it’ll enlighten him as to why someone thought it necessary to deprive Zack of his organs and toss his corpse into Gotham river. Disappointing the mob has consequences; betraying the mob even more so. 

If Zack had failed one of his tasks, or gotten cold feet, or tried to extort the mob for cash, Tim can see where that misstep would have taken him. Domi too, if he was brought in on the deal. Maybe he’d been soliciting cash from the mob to pay his own brother’s debts. Maybe he’d brought _ Zack _ in on it, and the mob had disposed of him the second they’d found a more long-term debtor in Zack. 

It doesn’t quite ring true for Tim, but it’s not implausible. Without knowing what the mob was asking of Zack - and maybe of Domi - there’s no way for him to gauge the severity of the backlash. If the favour was large enough, or bungled enough, dismemberment might have been the punishment to match the crime. 

Tim rises from his chair, mulling over the new information as he goes through the motions of brewing a new pot of coffee. 

Two murders less than two weeks apart from one another is a pretty bold leap, even for a mob. It’s a surefire way of attracting attention, and it’s generally not a play they tend to go for. When they do tend to dispose of a rogue member or debtor, mobs choose to _ dispose _ of the body. Not toss it carelessly into a river to wash up downstream. 

It _ is _ careless, all over. If the bodies hadn’t been absolutely scrubbed of evidence, fingerprints burned and features mutilated, Tim would almost consider it amateur work. But he’s looked over the autopsies more times than he can count now, the images seared onto the backs of his eyelids, and he can confidently say that these are practiced kills. 

They’re too efficient, too rigorous, to be spur of the moment dismemberments. Whoever’s dipping their hands into the mob’s payroll has been around the block. They’re an experienced killer; they know how to take a body apart and then dispose of it - with minimal workable evidence remaining - within forty-eight hours. Zack and Domi aren’t their first kills. 

Tim’s gone through all the open and recently closed files on the GCPD’s database, and whilst Gotham’s heaving with grievous assaults and attempted murders, none of them past or present fit the mould of Tim’s killer. Either they’re fairly new to this game and gaining traction, or they’re not local to Gotham. 

And the fact that the bodies were displayed so brazenly while being so abysmally clean of evidence tells Tim that this was intentional. They didn’t wash up accidentally. The discovery of the bodies was _ intentional. _ Someone was either trying to make a statement. Whether that statement was to toy with the cops or a more subtle warning to fellow criminals, Tim can’t say for sure, but he has no doubt they’re having the intended effect. 

Notwithstanding that Zack could have triggered his demise playing chicken with his local loan shark, Tim has no doubt his death is serving as a threat to third parties. Maybe the club, to keep Management in line with their mob enforcers. Or maybe the cops, to draw their attention away from a bigger operation. 

Tim wouldn’t be surprised if they’ve got the local precinct in their pocket. It’s not uncommon for mobs to commandeer the help of a few dirty cops with gambling debts or drug habits. And once the command room was tainted with a few bad apples, the rest tended to fall into line. 

He really ought to look into which cops are managing downtown Gotham these days. And more specifically, look at which calls they’re _ not _ making. Which cases are being miraculously swept under the rug after minimal investigation. Cases like Zack and Domi’s murders, for example. 

He hasn’t heard a single blip on the police radar about their investigations since he started at the Daily O. Two weeks cold and Zack’s already old news. Even by Gotham’s standards, that’s pretty pisspoor. 

Tim refills his mug and makes a mental checklist to look into the precinct’s cops. See if any of them have outstanding relationships with the local mob families. And see if Steph can glean him any insight into what Zack might have done to have a mob favour rescinded. She’d said she would keep an ear to the ground for him; maybe it’s time to call in a favour of his own. 

His phone is in his palm, thumb flicking open the screen when Tim pauses with a flash of cold guilt. 

Jason’s text is still waiting for him, innocuous and crushing where it sits at the top of his inbox, untouched. After his bonding with Damian and much more thorough shower, he’d fallen into an abyss of casework. He hadn’t forgotten about the message, not for a moment. But he doesn’t want to reply to it just yet. 

Doesn’t know what his answer is, just yet. 

He wants to say yes. Tim’s never been more certain of anything in his damn life. His idol Jason Todd, is asking _ Tim _ to be his boyfriend? When he’d been young and stupid and lovestruck, he’d daydreamed about Robin rapping on his bedroom window, come to steal him away into the night. 

He’d sort of taken matters into his own hands when that fantasy had failed to realise. So Tim had always expected that _ he’d _ have to initiate any sort of reconciliation between him and Jason. That he’d have to put his best foot forward and rise to the occasion. 

Having _ Jason Todd _ shyly asking permission to be his boyfriend is a little dizzying. Tim’s still half-convinced he’s slipped into one of his famous sleep deprivation comas. But when he’d emerged from his coffee-fueled investigating, the text had still been there, and Jason had still been waiting for an answer. 

He’s an _ asshole, _ he knows. He should have replied _ hours _ ago. Was halfway to typing his response when he’d had the realisation, had actually thought about exactly what he was doing and who he was replying to. More specifically, who he was replying _ as. _

Guilt had gotten the better of him. Guilt and the unwavering need to have Jason see him as he is. To understand that as much of a cover as Teddy had been when Tim first started out, the persona has become so much more now. Has sculpted itself around all the curves and edges of Tim, good and bad. So much more _ honest _ than he’d been originally. 

It’s the only way he’d been able to come out to Jason, the only way he’d been able to get the man to see him as anything more than a mini-Bruce, as an antagoniser, as an _ enemy. _ Jason’s treating him like… like a boyfriend, like a partner. Like someone he can _ trust, _and Tim doesn’t for a second imagine he could ever betray that trust. Persona aside, there’s absolutely nothing that could convince him to hurt Jason in any way like that. 

Tim’s not Bruce. He keeps to his code, plays by his rules, but he doesn’t see in black and white. He sees the grey, _ lives _ in it, and while he knows Bruce _ can _ see the grey, he knows he doesn’t always acknowledge it. Jason’s death has jaded him, in more ways than Tim can count, and carved out that harsh divide of ‘right’ and ‘wrong’ ever more clearly in his mind. He’s so severe for a reason; Tim knows that a single toe into the grey would be the end of Gotham’s incorruptible protector. Knows that Bruce would paint the difference in blood. 

It doesn’t excuse his rigid impartiality. _ Tim _ doesn’t excuse it, but he understands it. And that’s precisely why he doesn’t keep to such inflexible ideals. 

Honestly, he’s not so certain that he and Jason don’t see eye to eye on most issues. They’re both undercover, in a strip joint, investigating two murders that the cops and press deemed ‘tragic’ for all of three minutes before sidelining. They’re both here, seeking out justice, and they’ll drag it out bloody if they have to. They’re both too invested in the lives embroiled in this mess, in Twinka and Yolanda, in themselves. 

He wants to tell Jason. Wants to come clean so badly it aches. And Tim’s not prideful enough not to recognise that he’s scared too. Scared of rejection, scared of the backlash. And he has every right to be; the last time Jason had heard identity-revealing news from Tim, he’d left him bleeding out on a rooftop. Tim can still taste the steel of Jason’s knife on the back of his tongue. 

But he’s moved on. _ Jason’s _ moved on. Tim wants a fresh start, and he found it in Teddy. For whatever his own reasons, Jason’s found that fresh start too. It’s _ working, _ and Tim doesn’t want to compromise their progress on a moral hang up. 

But he’s compelled to tell him anyway. One way or another, he has to come clean eventually. Whether that’s tonight or once they get this investigation done with, Tim can’t say for sure. But he’s going to try. He _ has _ been trying, he knows, and he has a habit of dragging himself over the coals for his own minute failures. But he _ knows _ he’s been trying, and he’s been thwarted at every turn by Jason’s unwavering need to reassure and comfort. 

He’s going to try regardless. One last time. And if he can’t get the message across then, well… 

“I’ll figure it out,” Tim says aloud, soft and hesitant in the empty Cave. 

* * *

Jason’s having trouble breathing. He’s not sure if it’s the cloying heat of the narrow private room, the man’s calloused palm hitched around the back of his thigh, or the brewing panic attack. But he can’t breathe and he doesn’t know what he’s going to do about it. 

It’s an after work special; fifteen clients cram-packed into one of their larger private rooms, sprawled around the handful of lounges. A veritable buffet of appetizers and shooters carted in and out by Teddy and Twinka in their bunny lingerie, while Jason flits about ensuring they’re all sufficiently buzzed and their wallets stay open. 

Jason had been assigned the room practically the second he’d stepped off the stage, dragged off his planned night of reconnaissance on the floor to service the walk ins. He hadn’t thought anything of it; groups made for an easy night, and a lot of tips in Jason’s back pocket to donate to charity. 

They’d kicked off the week with a wet t-shirt contest, followed by his and Tommy’s popular ‘High Noon’ routine. Tommy had nailed him in the ear with a squirt from his dual sharp-spray shooters, cackling broadly when Jason had levelled his own water pistol across the stage and shot him directly in the tit. 

He’d stripped off the skin-hugging soaked t-shirt that was more liquid than shirt at that point, and beelined for the private group room he’d been assigned with a beaming smile. 

It’d sunk somewhere down into the cold pit of Jason’s churning stomach when he’d laid eyes on the room full of cops. He’d counted fifteen in the first sweep of his gaze, fumbling a recovering grin onto his paled features when they’d chorused his arrival. Call it a hunch from his street days, but walking into a room full of cops - off-duty or not - usually precipitates a beatdown and myriad of citations for hustling. 

Once he’s calmed down enough to remember he’s not a fuckin’ kid anymore and this is a legitimate avenue of sex work, Jason has the sense of mind to notice that it’s a joint taskforce. He distinguishes them by their rumpled dress shirts; grey for Gotham’s finest and Bludhaven blue for the neighbouring city’s most respectable civil servants. 

The one who beckons him over by slapping the tops of his thighs with a crooked grin and a smug glint to his eyes is one of Gotham’s. Jason sways across the tile, hamming it up under a chorus of whistles until he reaches the man sprawled back on the lounge. He gestures to his lap with an immensely condescending ‘well, get on with it’ flick of his wrist, and Jason bares his teeth in a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes when he straddles the man. 

It’s only once he’s about a foot from the skeezball’s face and several minutes into his grinding routine that Jason realises he knows this cop. Has met him before, actually, in none-too-different circumstances. The memory comes sharp and pungent to the forefront of Jason’s mind, washing like acid up his throat. 

The memory of this cop’s bruising grip around his upper arm, the way the scuff of their shoes (shoe, in Jason’s case) had reverberated off the walls of the narrow alley, the all-consuming panic and the scour of bile on his tongue when he’d finally had the sense to puke after the cop had retreated back to his cruiser. 

His senses flooded, it’s all Jason can do to stay seated in the man’s lap, force himself to gyrate beneath the weight of his stub-fingered hands as his mind bleeds white with static. The room is suddenly sauna hot, sweat sliding like a knife down Jason’s spine, threat and memory wrapped up in one. His scalp itches, his hands clenching on the leather of the seat on either side of the grinning man’s shoulders, and Jason can’t help but be transported back to the mugginess of that alley. There’s coarse concrete pressed to his kneecaps and a crumpled fifty in his palm. The numb resignation of what he has to do rendering his limbs pliant and weak beneath the cop’s instruction. Jason remembers being too shellshocked to tell him that his flat rate was twenty. 

He’d tried thinking of something else, tallying up meals in his head while his hand shook around the fifty - dollars and cents spent on cans of beans and bare essentials to distract him from the wet collapse of his own throat. It hadn’t been enough to distract him, not properly. Not with the cop’s fingers clenched in Jason’s hair and Jason’s eyes fixed on the gun holstered at his hip. Wondering if he’d use it. Wondering if he could grab it. Wondering what that sort of power would feel like in the palm of his hand. Wondering if he’d drag streetwalkers into back alleys to fuck if he was on the other end of the gun for once. 

Perhaps that was where his fascination with firearms began, if he cares to think about it. Something about the way he feels grounded when his thigh holsters are laden with lead bullets and not rubber pellets. Or how the distant screams of his own demons fall silent whenever his aim is true and his enemies cease in front of his smoking barrel.

He’s never wanted a gun in his palm more in his entire life than right now, straddling this sick fuck’s thigh. 

He can’t do anything, not without bringing Management down on his head, but he knows he can’t face this guy without puking all over him. Jason turns over, hooking his knee over the cop’s hips and bending forward until he can plant his palms on the tile, get a good enough grip with the balls of his feet to twerk in this guy’s face. Jason’s grinding down into the guy’s thighs, thrusting slow and tantalising into his legs, when he feels coarse fingers wrap around the holsters on his thighs and yank him open. 

He swallows his bleat of surprise in a choke that’s masked by the steady thrum of music, strained thighs quivering. Jason’s sweat-slicked palms nearly slip on the tile, and he bites down with his knees into the leather seat of the booth, nausea spiralling up to his stomach. 

He feels unbelievably compromised, splayed before the man in a way that’s never felt demeaning with most other patrons. His elbows feel like they could buckle at any moment, and Jason’s just summoned the confidence to disengage from the man’s lap when the cop's hands wrap over the front of Jason’s thighs and pull him deeper onto the seat. 

“That’s one fine ass,” the cop grunts appreciatively, and Jason’s throat is a wash of stomach acid he’s barely able to keep at bay. His mind fizzles with burning static as he tries to work out how he can get away from this cop without upsetting the whole room. It clears immediately when the cop cracks a hand down on Jason’s backside. 

The pain is more shock than agony, but it flashes up Jason’s spine in a fiery flare, and he collapses to his elbows with a gasp. He’s sure he’s not even managing a smear of a fake smile anymore, his features awash with tension and barely restrained panic. 

Something splatters the back of his forearm, and Jason thinks it might be a tear. He doesn’t get the opportunity to check before there’s a commotion. Through the roar of his pulse hammering in his ears, Jason’s aware of someone striding across the room, something rattling in their grip, and for a second he thinks he hears the high-pitched metallic clink of cuffs closing on him like a vice. 

Then there’s a dull clatter, a deafening yelp, followed by something cold and wet splattering over his back. The chill shakes him out of his frozen state, but not fast enough that Jason can catch himself when the cop shoves him off his lap and onto the tile. 

He manages to fumble onto his hands and knees, backside soaked and the air swimming with what smells suspiciously like a pitcher of Charla’s long island iced tea. There’s ice on the floor, melting swiftly into the tile between Jason’s trembling fingers and into the core of his chest to soothe the tight, hot ache of panic there. 

Then the cop is on his feet, and Jason turns dazedly to see Teddy, empty pitcher slack in his grip, and glaring up a storm. The room is silent, the quiet pressing on Jason’s ears as his jaw drops open. 

“Pardon me,” Teddy says, flat and dark, and doesn’t blink when the cop begins to swell. 

Teddy looks ridiculous in his bunny lingerie - fluffy plug protruding, at least a head shorter than the dripping cop if Jason doesn't count the ears - but in that moment, towering over Jason where he sits on the tile, he looks more resolute than steel. 

It still rocks him backwards when the cop drives a wet-knuckled fist into his stomach. The air leaves Teddy in a rush, Jason’s gut twisting sharply in echoed remorse as the man folds but - miraculously, unexpectedly - stays on his feet. His mouth does drop open though, a sharp breath sucking back in as his lungs seize up and he glares up at the cop. Then the crack of an open-palmed slap reverberates through Jason, and he’s shoving to his feet. 

He catches Teddy when he staggers sideways, bunny ears askew, wrapping the man up in his bulk as his cheek blooms red and his lips curl back in a snarl. 

The cop’s already shouting, loud and raucous in a way that makes Jason’s skull throb like a gun’s reverb never can, jabbing a violent finger in their direction. It takes all of Jason’s brittle, shaken strength to keep Teddy in his arms when the man arcs up to retaliate, blue gaze sharp and cold like Jason’s never seen it before. 

Then the cop advances, and Jason’s stomach reasserts itself into the top of his throat as he bails backwards, taking Teddy with him, like he’s laced up under Jason’s ribcage. 

There’s a figure between them in the next second, time dragging through Jason’s senses like molasses as he recognises the head server, the fiery one, corralling the cop back towards the seats. He looks pale, looks stricken, in the wake of the fight, but that determination is still there, vibrating through his obvious discomfort as he bars the much larger man with his short stature. 

“Break it up,” Twinka orders, tone clipped. “Let it go.” 

“You little fucking bastard,” the cop snaps, and even though it’s directed over Twinka’s shoulder, Jason can see the way the small man coils with panic. He’s not the only one. 

Unsurprisingly, the guy who’s just slam-dunked a pitcher of alcohol over the head of Jason’s former tormentor is the only one not panicking. 

“Leave,” Teddy snaps, the command flat and barked. It rattles the cop’s authority complex dangerously. “Get out.” 

“What the fuck did you just say to me, you shit?” he snarls, and jabs that finger in their direction again. Jason really wishes he could just pick Teddy up and cart him out of the room. In any other circumstance, he probably could. But right now his knees feel like jelly, and it’s taking all of his concentration to make sure he’s actually breathing. 

“Teddy,” Jason implores on his next inhale, and the smaller man glances up at him, brow pinched in a concern that knocks him breathless again. 

“You want to fuck with me, you fucking brat?” the cop bellows, frustratedly wiping the burning drink from his eyes, tears running down his red face as he only succeeds in getting more into the sensitive membrane. 

Teddy’s still gripping the pitcher so hard his knuckles are white, reminiscent of brass knuckles. He’s smiling but it’s not reaching his eyes at all, something hard and determined set into the blazing bright blue. Like a gas flame turned up to full blast. The room seems to become a vacuum, and Jason’s mind goes quiet when Teddy hisses through his teeth, “Who’d want to fuck you?” 

The cop looks incredulous, his bloodshot eyes wide before he grows even redder, apparently trying to set a new high blood pressure record. He surges forward, shoving Twinka aside into the booth seats to a gasp of shock and pain, and strides across the room towards them. Jason’s not sure when or how, but Teddy somehow gets Jason behind him, until he’s the only thing between him and the cop. 

“You know what,” the cop hisses once he’s toe to toe with the smaller man, “I think we need a cavity search on this one, boys. I’ve got probable cause.” 

The low murmur of agreement that rolls through the room reminds Jason suddenly, sharply, that they’re egregiously outnumbered. 

Teddy tenses, but doesn’t back down yet. “Probable cause for what?” 

“Whatever I need,” the cop snarls, reaching out to seize a fistful of Teddy’s lingerie, dragging him a stunted step closer. Teddy’s hand flashes up to wrap over his meaty fist, but doesn’t pry him away yet. “Weed, cocaine, who cares. How long do you wanna go away for, you little fuck?” 

“Fuck,” Twinka whispers, the sound a hiss in the otherwise silent room. Someone killed the music a while ago, but Jason can’t summon the concentration to remember when. The server pushes upright, eyes wide and hands twitching. He glances at Jason, at where he’s frozen behind Teddy. “I’m getting Yolanda,” he says, and ducks behind the cop, dashing out of the room. 

“Fat load of good that’ll do,” the cop sneers, shaking Teddy once. “We know Management. We’re not going anywhere until you apologise, you insolent whore.” 

“Going to be waiting a while,” Teddy shoots back flatly, and Jason winces, prying him out of the cop’s grip with a hand on his shoulder. 

“He didn’t mean that,” Jason placates, lungs tight and painful. “He’s sorry, we’re sorry.” 

“I want to hear it from him.” 

Jason stills, glancing down at Teddy, at the hard quality to his glare, and knows that’s not going to happen in this lifetime. He tries anyway. “Teddy,” he pleads, and he must sound genuinely pathetic, because the man glances aside at him, surprised, as if he hadn’t noticed yet how tightly wound Jason is. At how fucking terrified he is of this room and that cop and the thought that they’re going to lay a single hand on Teddy. 

His shoulders slump the longer he looks at Jason, brow soothing into remorse, before his jaw tightens and he turns back to the man. “I’m sorry,” he says stiffly. 

The cop isn’t finished. “For what?” 

Teddy’s fists clench, but his tone stays miraculously even. “I’m sorry for spilling that pitcher on you. I’ll be more mindful of my feet next time.” 

The cop’s response is swallowed up by Yolanda’s entrance as she slips through the beaded curtain, Twinka hovering at her heels. 

“What’s the fuss, Russ?” Yolanda prompts, as nonchalant as Cleopatra before Mark Antony, pinning the group of cops with a critical eye. Jason’s sharply reminded that Yolanda is _ not _ the biggest fan of bootlicking cops. Management must have some damn sweet deal to have her treating these pigs with any sort of forced civility. 

Russ’ lip curls back. “You want to control your little cunts? This one just dumped an entire pitcher on me. On _ purpose,_” he adds pointedly, glowering at Teddy like some petulant child. 

Yolanda’s gaze flicks to Teddy, then up to Jason, pausing. “Teddy, take Jack upstairs. I’ll speak to you in the back. Twinka, can you bring these men a round of whatever they want, on the house.” 

“You’re damn right,” Russ mutters, and Jason’s muscles unlock when Teddy starts to pull him towards the doorway. He can feel the cop’s gaze on his back as they make a hasty retreat. “Don’t make me talk to McClain or the higher ups about this fuck up. He doesn’t need that kind of attention on _ this _ club too.” 

“I don’t think he’d appreciate that kind of threat,” Yolanda returns evenly, tersely. 

Jason just manages to catch the response as they turn the corner out of the room. “I don’t think _ they _particularly care what McClain appreciates.” 

That makes his throat lace tightly, but Jason would be lying if he said he was surprised. And it doesn’t take him many guesses to work out who ‘they’ is. Downtown Gotham is run by the Falcones; every club and bar in a thirty mile radius is under their protection. Jason’s not surprised the Daily O is playing clubhouse to a bunch of dirty cops on their payroll either. And Jason already knows these cops’ moral codes aren’t the protect and serve kind. 

It takes him a while to realise Teddy’s holding his hand; with how wound up he is, Jason’s surprised he’s even coherent at all. Just a few minutes ago he thought he was going to pass out in some cop’s lap. But Teddy’s like an anchor in the storm. He can feel how the man steadies him as they duck into an alcove slightly further down the hall, away from the prying eyes on the club floor and the dragging gazes back in that room. 

Jason feels unprecedentedly grateful, the sensation rushing up on him like a wave as tears spring to his eyes. They’re pouring in the next second, the air stuttering into his lungs in gulps as Teddy turns back to face him with broad concern. 

“Jay,” Teddy says softly, thumbs rising to stroke over his cheekbones as he guides Jason back against the wall. He appreciates the support, no matter how much he wants to slide down the plaster. “Are you okay? Jay, I’m so sorry.” 

“Fine,” Jason gets out around his heaving breaths, and blinks back a fresh flow of tears. “I’m fine.” He hates himself for a moment, because it is ridiculous that he broke down like this. Insanely, he thinks he can hear Bruce telling him to meditate, as if that will solve every emotional trauma.

“You don’t look fine,” Teddy entreats, gaze sliding over his features as resolve settles in his blue eyes. “I’m going to talk to Management.” 

Jason doesn’t know how he manages to catch Teddy’s wrist. Call it reflex. Or maybe the panic is just heightening his reactions. “No,” he says, tugging him back into the alcove. “No, you can’t.” 

“They can’t treat you like that,” Teddy says carefully, watching his expression. “They’re not going to get away with this.” 

The last thing Jason needs is for his job - and his cover - to be compromised. He feels nauseous. “Leave it alone, Teddy, it’s fine. You don’t need to.” 

“I do,” Teddy insists, yanking lightly on his trapped limb. “Jay, you have to let me talk to McClain. He needs to know what they did to you-” 

“_Leave it,_” Jason bellows, and Teddy flinches back, snapping his grip. Remorse spirals up through Jason immediately, and he reaches out to trail fingers down Teddy’s arm. “Teddy, I’m- I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to. I just need you to leave this alone. I can’t lose this job.” 

Teddy’s brow pinches with something deeper than sympathy, but Jason can’t pinpoint it before Teddy schools his features. “You have to tell Management,” he says. 

Jason gives him a bleak laugh. “About what? A cop getting handsy? They’ll think I’m overreacting. Or they’ll blow this out of proportion, claim I’m taking clients on company grounds. They’ll fire me at the first chance they get. You’ve seen their screens. If those cops say I’m being hysterical, or say _ anything _ to suggest I’m having sex on the premises, I’ll be out the door tonight. I can’t afford to lose this job.” 

Teddy’s expression falls, and for a brief moment Jason wishes this job was just about money. Wishes that he wasn’t tied to this sick sense of morality, to his unwavering justice. Wishes he didn’t keep throwing himself down on the grenade so the little guys could walk over him. Wishes there wasn’t even a grenade at all. 

He reaches up to stroke down Teddy’s jawline, exhaling when the man relaxes beneath his touch. “It’s fine,” Jason repeats hollowly. “Just let it go.” 

As if to counter that, Teddy steps forward, winding his arms around Jason’s waist and squeezing hard. It makes the air rush out of Jason’s lungs with his surprise, makes the tears dry on his cheeks. Teddy burrows his forehead into the hollow of Jason’s collarbone, hands warm on his bare skin. The ice has dried now, leaving him cold and shivery. 

It strikes Jason just how… normal it feels, to have Teddy’s body pressed against him. How _ nice _ it is to have someone concerned about him like that. Jason’s hasn’t had many relationships - romantic or platonic or otherwise - where he can say he’s let his guard down like that. In fact, he can count on one hand how many people he trusts to be hugging him like Teddy currently is. 

Something niggles at the back of Jason’s mind, now that he’s levelled out and can feel his fingers again. 

“You didn’t answer my text.” 

Teddy doesn’t move for a moment. Long enough that Jason starts to think he hasn’t heard him. Then he shifts, tilting his head back so he can meet Jason’s gaze with a look that’s equally resolute as it is remorseful. 

“I wanted you to ask me in person,” he says simply. “So I could get the chance to talk to you before I say yes.” 

Jason stalls out a little. Maybe it’s the night’s emotional roller coaster, but he could swear Teddy just said _ yes, _ he wants to be Jason’s boyfriend. Then the rest of that sentence catches up with him, and Jason winces at the realisation that he _ texted _ the proposal to Teddy. 

“Sorry,” he mumbles, and Teddy shakes his head, the tips of his hair brushing like feathers against Jason’s bare pecs when they dance around his head. 

“No, that’s fine. I just… I didn’t get a chance to talk to you before our shifts started, and I want to talk to you first.” Teddy looks uncomfortable, hesitant. “In case you want to say no after we talk.” 

Jason blinks down at him. “Why would I want to say no?” 

“Because I have something to tell you. And I need you to hear me out, please. Afterwards, if you don’t want to speak to me again, then that’s fine,” he says, sounding like it’s anything but. He looks desperate, on the cusp of tears, guilt painted over his angular features. Jason can’t understand why. “I can live with that, okay? I don’t… I don’t want you to date me if you aren’t comfortable with who I really am.” 

Jason’s definitely not processing at full capacity. He wants to laugh at the irony, a hysterical bubble rising in his chest. If anyone is hiding who they really are, it’s him. He slides his hand up over Teddy’s neck, past his cheek and buries his fingers into the soft-as-silk tresses. 

“Teddy,” he breathes earnestly, “nothing is going to change the way I feel about you. Not a damn thing, angel. You could tell me _ anything._” 

Teddy swallows, none of his nerves dampening at the reassurance. He seems to gather himself, fretting beneath Jason’s heavy palm on the back of his neck. 

“What if I'm not who you think I am?” Teddy asks tentatively. “What if I’m trying to be someone else, and I’m not who I was and you’ve fallen in love with _ this _ me, and I’m a different person now, but that’s not who I am, and-” 

Jason shakes his head. Teddy could admit he was Bigfoot right now and Jason wouldn’t give a damn. “It doesn’t matter to me.” 

Teddy’s expression pinches with guilt. “No, I need you to understand-” 

“Are you that person right now?” Jason interrupts sharply. 

Teddy falters. “N-no.” 

“Then they don’t matter.” Jason’s tone is firm. “Whoever they were, whatever you’ve done - you’re not them anymore. You’re trying to be better. You’re trying _ so hard _ to be a better person.” 

Jason’s not sure he’s not talking about himself either. He draws in a deep breath, collecting the frayed parts of him as he forges onwards. 

“Teddy, I don’t care if you’ve changed who you are. If you’re being honest with me now, with how you feel about me, that’s all that matters to me. I’m not who I was either, not since I met you. You- You’ve changed me, angel. For the better. And if I’ve done the same for you, then…” 

Jason sucks in a sharp breath at the thought that he could have such an impact on Teddy. That he could mean so much to the man. Teddy blinks up at him, awed and silent. 

“Whoever you want to be around me… that’s all that matters to me. And I want that person to be my boyfriend. So I’ll ask again, properly: will you be mine?” Jason’s voice grows soft, much like the smile that he can’t help but let slide over his lips.

Teddy’s mouth works soundlessly, struggling to reply. He looks truly bowled over, but it’s obvious how much he wants this from the way his face flushes and how his blue eyes seem to glow as Jason catches himself reflected in their depths. 

“Yes, _ yes please_,” Teddy whispers, helplessly pushing up to his tip toes when Jason comes down to meet him halfway. He tastes sweet, a contrast to the salt of Jason’s own tears that have since dried. The desperate whimper that escapes Teddy when Jason slides closer, gathering him up and tilts his head to taste him deeper is almost too much for Jason to bear.

He rests his forehead against his _ boyfriend’s _ when they part to breathe, quietly admiring him. Teddy’s face flushes even darker under the scrutiny, almost beginning to pout as he worries his lower lip, swollen from Jason’s kiss. 

Jason nuzzles him, mischievously nipping that lower lip, mind already twisting out contingencies of how they can slip away into a broom closet. A loud cough douses those sizzling ideas immediately as both of them become aware that they are in the middle of a hallway. 

“As much as I’m happy for you two cute lovebirds,” Yolanda’s arms are folded over her chest, a sympathetic wince on her brow, “I have to remind you that this is a workplace, not a hotel.” 

Jason and Teddy separate quickly, Jason awkwardly palming the wall behind him to keep his hands to himself. She laughs a little, her sternness softening to genuine concern. 

“You okay, Jack?” 

“Y-yeah. I’m fine. Don’t want to talk about it. Just… are we in trouble?” Jason asks sheepishly. 

“You’re not, but,” Yolanda’s gaze shifts to Teddy, who doesn’t look contrite in the least. “McClain’s going to want to talk to you later. Lucky for you he’s out of town at the moment. I promise I’ll do what I can to keep you from getting the boot.” 

Teddy withers under her stern glower, grimacing at the mention of McClain. Down the hall, someone calls for Yolanda’s help, and she sighs. 

“If you two can keep your heads down - and your hands to yourselves for at least another three hours - then you’re both in for a treat.” 

Teddy’s brow knits. “Huh?” 

“It’s Long Johnson’s birthday. We always have a party after hours for our employees.” She wiggles her brows suggestively. “One of the party games is Spin the Bottle: Gloryhole edition.”

One of the stagehands calls for her louder, sounding more urgent this time, and she can’t stay to enjoy the hilarious way Teddy and Jason’s mouths drop open, both flushing crimson as Dorothy’s red slippers. She still laughs, winking salaciously. 

“Behave yourselves, and maybe, just maybe, I’ll arrange for you two to have seven minutes in heaven.” 

* * *

Jason feels wrung out and a little ashamed of himself when he parts ways with Teddy in the hall and heads back to the floor. He stops off in the bathroom to splash his face with cold water and recenter himself. Gripping the edge of the sink, he stares at his reflection in the mirror, his eyes bloodshot from crying and nose red at the edges. He presses his face into a paper towel, forcing his breathing to even out. He should be walking on air right now, but he’s terrified. 

It’s been a long, long time since he’d felt so helpless. The fact he hadn’t killed everyone in that room was a testament to how far he’d come the past few years to overcome the Pit’s green-tinted glasses. He’d been unprepared for the backlash of childhood trauma that had surged up instead of homicidal rage. 

He was supposed to be the one saving people, damnit. 

He’s blushing when he tosses the paper towel in the trash, the scarlet tinge steadily spreading its reach up to his ears. Teddy was tiny but tenancious, and Jason couldn’t help but feel incredibly touched at how adamant the boy had been in defending him from the sleazy fuck. He couldn’t remember the last time someone besides Roy or Kori had stuck up for him like that. Certainly none of Bruce’s underlings had shown that much consideration since he’d come back to Gotham. 

“Get it together,” he tells his pitiful reflection, tone gruff and raw, before heading back to the floor. There’s still about an hour left till closing, but the few customers left already have a stripper at their tables, so he has nothing left to do. He can’t idle though, not with how wobbly he feels, so Jason meanders through the empty tables without any real direction. 

Twinka catches his attention at the bar, where he’s sassing Tommy for trying to sneak a beer. His brown eyes light up, and a small hand beckons him over with a stern ‘Don’t even think of running’ expression. The protective, put-upon scowl on the man’s petite features brings a smile to Jason’s face. 

“Here, sweetie,” Charla drawls, setting a shot of whiskey on the counter when Jason approaches. He doesn’t need encouragement, quickly throwing it back and dropping it on the counter before anyone can blink. 

“They left,” Twinka shoots over his shoulder as he heads off with a laden tray, and despite the curl of gratitude that warms his chest, Jason snorts.

“Fuckheads.” 

Charla winces. “Sorry, sweetie. I’d love to be rid of them too.” She bends down to grab some empty bottles, hurriedly restocking. “But it’s Gotham, what can you do?” She does sound truly apologetic, flashing a small sympathetic smile his way. 

“What happened?” Tommy asks curiously, leaning his long arms over the counter as he glances between them. His hair is freshly washed, but not yet dry, and it clings to his forehead in places. He still looks charmingly angelic beneath the bar lights. 

“Just some handsy cop,” Jason sighs, watching Charla run through the motions. 

“I heard Teddy dumped my pitcher on him,” Charla snickers with a vicious curl to her lips. Jason starts, remembering that Charla’s Teddy’s manager, so of course she’d been the first ear Yolanda whispered into about the incident. 

“He’s not going to lose his job for that, is he?” Jason presses with a pinched brow. 

Charla pats his hand fondly. “Not if we have anything to say about it. That asshole raised a hand to one of my servers. He’s lucky I didn’t throw him out myself.” 

Tommy snorts, flashing a brilliant smile as he slips into his midwestern drawl. “A dainty little lady like yourself?” 

“Ain’t no dainty little lady with these guns, honey.” Charla lifts her arms, flexing gratuitously. Jason gives her a low whistle, a grin tugging at his lips. His mood is improving already. She sobers after a moment, patting Jason fondly beneath the chin with the tips of her fingers. “Sorry about your night, darling. We’ll keep an eye out for you next time.” 

“Thanks,” Jason replies, and presents his shot glass for a refill. “Remembering that he looked like a drown rat is helping, though.” 

“Tragic.” The blonde shakes his head, eyeing Jason over the neck of his beer. “Was it Russ?”

Jason’s mind snaps into clarity, as he carefully side-eyes the midwesterner. He forces himself into the role of Jack, pulling on the token coat of nonchalance of a local Gothamite. 

“I think so? I never got his name when I was a kid and he was hustlin’ me.” Charla freezes behind the bar, staring at the bottle in her fist. Interesting reaction, he notes, before Tommy makes a noise of sympathy. 

“Knew he was a sleazebag,” Tommy mutters. “He tried to solicit me a few times when I first came to Gotham. Got really handsy about it too. But I told him I’d slit him open from his balls to his brain if he tried it.” 

Jason doesn’t know what to say to that. He didn’t think Tommy was capable of such violence, but now he’s beginning to wonder. Then again, he can’t really judge a book by it's cover. Life had taken one good swing at him, and he’d developed what he could fondly call a gun fetish out of it. In truth, he barely knows Tommy; doesn't know his life, doesn’t know much of what he’s been through to bring him to this point. Maybe he’s justified in his anger. Maybe he’s got a grudge against cops who abuse their power, just like Jason has. 

After seeing Russ again, Jason can imagine why it would be easy to threaten him with such a thing. He can’t convincingly say he wouldn’t do the same in Tommy’s shoes. 

Tommy offers him a bright, reassuring smile in the silence. “I didn’t, though, for the record. Nearly got arrested for saying it anyway.” 

Charla makes a noise of distaste. “Cops are cops. What’s new?” 

“He come around often?” Jason prods. 

“Just once a blue moon, thank God.” She goes back to making drinks, filling trays with shots. “They used to come through every other night. Batgirl has been making it known she’s not here to play, I heard. Must be making them quiver in their little white supremacist booties.” 

Jason’s going to buy Stephanie a drink and discuss Russ soon. He’d love to put the pedo in the bay tonight, but considering how many friends he had with him in that room, Jason wants to make sure he gets each and every one of them. 

“Hm,” Jason says in response, stretching across the counter. Charla turns a blind eye to Jason sneaking a shot off the tray, and Jason throws back the evidence post haste. “Yolanda told me there’s a party tonight?” 

Charla grins like a cat who got the cream. 

“Oh yes, it's the birthday boy’s special big 4-0.” 

“He’s that old?” Jason hisses, turning in sync with Tommy to admire Long Johnson’s baby smooth skin as he works a table of what looks to be blushing mormons. The man didn’t look a day over twenty-five, easily. 

“He’s one of our original hunks,” Charla says fondly, leaning on the counter. “Use to be a bouncer for our shows in the old days.” She sighs dreamily as he jiggles his crotch, and Jason tries to stifle his grin in an admiring glance.

“I have _ got _ to get skincare tips,” Tommy bemoans, hanging his head. Jason snorts; it’s more likely genetic than anything else. That’s the only excuse he can think of for that kind of muscle definition. He doesn’t want to think about how he’ll age, too many other priorities on his mind. Bruce aged like fine wine, and Dick seems to have the kind of looks that age accepts rather than diminishes. _ Probably won’t survive to forty, _ Jason thinks dryly, _ Gotta wonder if it’ll stick though. _

The club’s last call arrives, as the final sets wrap up and the servers clean the tables. Jason doesn’t see Teddy or Yolanda as he heads back to the dressing room to get changed. Tommy trails after him, kicking off his boots and peeling off his garments along the way. 

“What a night,” Tommy groans, reaching for his Levis. 

“Agreed.” 

Tommy flashes him a grin. “Excited for the party, though.” 

Jason smirks. “Might make the evening worthwhile. Won’t be a total write off then.” 

Others start to trail in, buzzing with excitement as they dress down. There’s a thrum in the air, every face bright with anticipation. Apparently they’ve all been waiting for this party a while. 

“Congrats, LJ!” Tommy calls, when the man of the hour tromps in. “You gonna retire soon?”

“Man, fuck you, Tommyboy!” the man guffaws good-naturedly, dodging handfuls of body glitter that some of his coworkers are throwing at him. “I’ll be working here till I’m dead.” 

Jason shudders, hoping that will be decades away, and not any day soon. With the current climate of the Daily O, Jason’s surprised they haven’t started handing out life insurance pamphlets yet. 

Long Johnson moseys on over to their dressers, hooking an affectionate arm around Tommy’s neck and pulling him off his stool. Tommy goes easily, his fight more for show than anything. 

“You gonna give me a birthday blowjob, Tomcat?” 

Tommy snorts. “Depends if you spin my stall in Spin the Bottle.” 

“Aw,” Long Johnson croons teasingly. “No courtesy blow for old times sake? I showed you the ropes around here. You’ve got me to thank for all those sweet moves you pulled on that stage tonight.” 

Jason can’t help but grin along with Tommy. “Like I said, if you pull my number, I’ll be in stall three.” 

Long Johnson guffaws at the saucy wink, scrubbing his knuckles into Tommy’s blond locks. “Only dancer I know to get on their knees for that game. Thought only the servers played receiver for Spin the Bottle?” 

“I’m lost,” Jason chimes in. “What game is this?” 

“Birthday tradition,” Tommy advises, breaking free of Long Johnson’s torment. “We play spin the bottle. Whoever gets picked meets up in the bathroom stalls and makes good use of all those glory holes.” 

Jason blanches. “Wait, really? I thought Yolanda was kidding?” 

“Don’t be a prude,” Long Johnson drawls, batting Jason’s shoulder. “It’s fun, I promise. And it’s only us singles who play, so you’ve got nothing to lose amongst friends.” 

“Is Twinka joining this year?” Tommy asks reluctantly. 

Long Johnson makes a complicated expression. “Abel? Don’t think he will. Don’t think Charla will make him either. Fair enough; guy’s been through hell and back with Domi.” 

“No kidding,” Tommy mutters. “Could use the pick me up, though.” 

“We’ll drag him into playing Twister,” Long Johnson compromises with a mischievous grin. He fixes Jason with a wise look. “Watch him; those elbows are sharp and he’s vicious to boot. Flexible things come in small packages.” 

“Other way round, from what I heard with Twinka,” Tommy interjects brazenly, and Long Johnson smacks him in reprimand. 

“You’re incorrigible. Get dressed so we can start drinking. I’ll see you upstairs. You too, Jackie,” he adds as he backtracks. “Newbies spin first.” 

Jason’s stomach buzzes with nerves as he reaches for his shirt. “Great.” 

* * *

Tim’s used to pressure. He’s faced supervillians with more poise and grace than he faced his own feelings with today. Yolanda hadn’t lectured him, but she’d kept him off the floor for the rest of the evening. He’d mopped the kitchen and the tiny break room the servers used, and then been sent to take out the trash. The mindless tasks allow him to cool off and compartmentalize the day’s events, but they do nothing to stifle the restlessness brewing in his veins. 

He’d lost control. 

All he could think about when he saw those grubby mitts on Jason’s ass was,_ how fucking dare you. _It would have been laughable, because Jason was twice his size and could take care of himself; but something in the stiff line of Jason’s sturdy back made him go ice cold. Like someone trying to break up a dogfight, Tim had hosed the dirty cop off with a fresh pitcher. His instinct about Jason’s well-being had been right on the money, but he’d never even thought about the fact that he could lose his own job. The one he needed to track down killers, the mob and now ‘Russ’ and his dirty cop friends. 

There was a shitload of things he needed to do, and ever more added to his bottomless list by the minute, but every time it came to Jason it all flew out the window. Tim was intimately beginning to understand Bruce’s fascination with Selina now, though admittedly the man had decades of principle and more restraint than God himself when it came to his own happiness. His stomach felt like it was floating against his heart as he slowly began to process the fact that he had agreed to be Jason’s _ boyfriend. _

He plucks off his apron when he finishes scrubbing down the bar, forcing himself to help with set up for the birthday bash. Some of the servers have ducked out, mostly the ones who have husbands or boyfriends at home already. The ones who are left are excited, primping between duties. 

Dancers are steadily approaching the bar when he finishes up the dishes, and he clenches the sponge in his fist when he catches sight of Jason. He’s wearing nothing special, just simple jeans too tight over his thick thighs, and a grey henley. He looks plain in comparison to the flamboyant stripper crew, but Tim doesn’t even notice the glitz and glam. 

His lips part, tongue chasing the phantom taste of Jason. 

_ Gloryhole_, Yolanda had said. 

Tim swallows against the dry back of his throat, choking a little as he tears his gaze away from the way Jason’s legs flex as he mounts a bar stool with the grace of a trained assassin. From the way he perches, it looks relaxed and at ease, but Tim knows better. He’s seen Ra’s compounds firsthand. Hell, he’s run with his people. Talia’s hand in Jason’s lost days is as apparent as the sunrise on Gotham’s putrid horizon from Tim’s vantage point. 

He really ought to include her on the Christmas card list this year, just as a thank you. Craftsmanship like that really does warrant gratitude. Maybe a bottle of merlot. 

Speaking of terrifying women. “Teddy,” Yolanda says, snapping his attention away from the dancers practically crawling over the bar in search of bottles. 

His stomach plummets, but Tim’s already resigned himself to this. “Yolanda.” 

She watches him wash the suds from his hands, leaning a hip on the counter top. Her bright green nails gleam in the harsh fluorescents. “How’re you feeling, darling?” 

It blindsides him a little, and Tim frowns. “Fine?” 

Yolanda hums. “Still angry? Or have you managed to cool down some?” 

Tim flushes guiltily. “I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t be sorry, baby. Just don’t do it again. I can’t boost those cops, as much as I want to, so I need my servers to play nice.” She fixes him with a stern look that could rival Bruce’s scowl. Or worse, Alfred’s. “And not put themselves or other staff in danger. Stop antagonizing the customers. I don’t care how much they need a cool off. If you do it again, I’ll fire you.” 

Tim swallows and nods. “Yes, ma’am.” 

Yolanda softens a bit at his sincerity, and pats him on the hip. “Forgiven and forgotten, darlin’. Now get out there and join in the fun. We’re starting our main game soon.” 

Tim scurries past her without another word, throwing the tea towel onto the bench as he passes. 

Charla beckons him over to the bar as soon as she spots him, where she presses a gin and tonic into his palm and orders him to spin an empty beer bottle on the counter. Tim glances down at it with confusion and growing trepidation. 

“What happens when I do?” he asks, sipping at his drink and ignoring the eager leers of the gathered dancers and servers. He feels unnervingly on display, every set of eyes fixed on him as he turns the bottle slowly, playing with it. 

“Whoever it lands on, goes into the bathroom. Then we spin again, and whoever gets chosen next joins them for a little-” Charla makes a crude gesture with her tongue in her cheek, and Tim winces. 

“C’mon, Teddy,” Long Johnson croons, singling himself out amongst the crowd. “It’s tradition. It’ll be fun, I promise.” He’s joined by a chorus of agreement, so Tim draws in a deep, steadying breath and twirls the empty bottle. 

A cheer of anticipation rises from the gathered staff as the bottle makes a slow arch and comes to a rest with the neck pointing directly at Tim. Charla barks a laugh as his stomach sinks. 

“You’re up, Teddy Bear!” 

Tim resigns himself to his fate when Tommy and another dancer scoop him up onto their shoulders, parading him towards the bathroom as he desperately tries to stay seated. They drop him onto the tile once he ducks under the doorframe, guiding him giddily into the first stall on the rank, and Tim sits down onto the toilet lid before his legs collapse under him. He feels nervous, startlingly out of his depth as the other dancer makes his exit, crooning horrendously off-tune, “Sh, sh, she lick me, like a lollipop…” 

Tommy lingers at Tim’s drawn expression, some of his mirth dimming to soft reassurance as he crouches down. He rests a hand on Tim’s knee, smiling gently. “Are you okay?” 

Tim heaves a breath, fidgeting. “Yeah, I’m fine, I’m just…” 

“Nervous?” Tommy guesses, and Tim hunches his shoulders. 

This feels like some high school game that he doesn’t know the rules of. Tim feels like someone’s going to burst in at any moment and laugh at him for being stupid enough to fall for the prank. 

But Tommy doesn’t move until Tim nods. “You’ll be fine,” he assures warmly, and it doesn’t quite calm Tim’s nerves, but it does make him feel less alone in this. Tommy studies his expression for a moment, before offering, “We can stop, if you want to.” 

Tim’s head jerks up. “No! No, I’m fine, I’m just nervous. I’ll be fine.” 

“This is entirely voluntary, so if you aren’t comfortable you can always say no,” Tommy said firmly, before he smiles and pats his knees conspiratorially. “But I’d suggest giving it a try. You might find you enjoy it. It’s just like whistling backwards.” 

He winks, and Tim can’t help a little hiccuping laugh.

“There you go,” Tommy soothes, pushing to his feet. “Don’t stress about your partner neither; Charla and Yolanda _ always _ rig these games anyway, so you’re only at the mercy of two drag gods.” 

That’s not as reassuring as Tommy probably intends it to be. Tim frowns as he starts for the door. “Wait, who are they putting me with?” 

Tommy gives him a bright chuckle and departs without another word, closing the stall door behind him. Tim sighs, leaning forward to lock the door before he settles back on his perch and waits out his partner. 

After the stunt he pulled today, he’s not sure Yolanda is going to be so charitable to him. She could pick anyone at that bar. It’s not like Tim’s going to get a good enough view of them to know _ who _ he’s blowing if they’re in another stall. And whilst Tim can’t deny that every single one of the dancers would make him swoon, he can’t imagine putting one of them in his mouth. 

He glances down at the cutout in the wall, more than halfway down the divider and carved out of the thin sheet metal. His stomach clenches at the notion that he might have to get on his knees for some stranger. 

Yolanda had said that she would try to put him and Jason together though. Tim wants to believe her, he does, but he can’t bring himself to shake the _ what if. _

And even if he does, by some miracle, manage to spin Jason, what is he expected to do? How is he supposed to look Jason in the eye and convince him he knows what the hell he’s doing? Tim had barely spent a cumulative year in high schools with his undercover work, and he’d never had the pleasure of playing a horrendous game of Spin the Bottle. Or, you know, spent enough time with a boy his own age to do _ that. _

Tim buries the heels of his hands into his eyes. He hasn’t… missed the fact that Jason is clearly gifted in that department. It’s hard not to notice with the skimpy stage underwear all the dancers tend to wear. And logically, Tim knows how gloryholes and blowjobs work; he’s been a teenage boy with an internet connection, so the technicalities don’t escape him. But the thought of fitting all of Jason in his mouth… 

He honestly doesn’t know how it’s going to fit. Or how much of a fool he’s going to make of himself in front of Jason. Tim sincerely doubts that trying to improvise his first ever strip club gloryhole experience is going to go as smoothly as he wishes it will. 

The last thing he wants to do is look stupid in front of his teenage idol. Or worse, disappoint Jason. Tim’s not sure he could handle that kind of wincing rejection. Not when he finally feels like he made a connection with Jason today, really made him see that he’s being as genuine as he possibly can under the circumstances. Not now that they were boyfriends. 

He drops his hands back into his lap and tries to focus on something else besides the uncertainty that lies beyond the stall.

Tim hears the door to the bathroom squeak open, his breath catching in his lungs as he lowers his feet back to the tile. He swallows as the footsteps approach, trying to gauge anything from the sound of them. Height, build, _ anything. _Bruce taught them to glean information from anywhere, no matter how small. But this guy is unbearably stealthy in his approach, and Tim feels his stomach knot up in his throat. 

The cubicle wall rattles when someone shrugs into the stall adjacent, and Tim holds his breath, waiting for the telltale zip of a fly. 

“Teddy?” a voice calls through the divide, and the relief is instant. 

“Jay?” Tim replies, and hears a hand being pressed to the thin metal between them. 

Jason’s voice is equally as relieved when he says, “Yeah, it’s me, bottle landed on me,” he says with a hiccuping laugh. He sounds just as nervous as Tim, and it tempers down some of his panic as he turns to stare at that dreaded hole in the wall. 

The silence stretches for a bit, before Jason entreats, gently, “We don’t have to… do anything, if you don’t want to. I’m not expecting… I can just tell them you put out, you don’t actually have to-” 

All the air leaves Tim’s lungs in a reassured heave, and he must make a more audible sound than he expects, because Jason’s tone rises an octave. 

“Or I can tell them you didn’t! That’s no problem, I don’t need to tell them anything. You can say what you like, I’m not gonna make you-” 

“Jay,” Tim chuckles, and he peters off. “I’m okay, it’s fine. I want to.” 

“I just don’t want you to feel like you _ have _ to do anything,” Jason entreats. 

“I’d never feel that way with you,” Tim answers, and it’s Jason’s turn to suck in a sharp breath. 

He clears his throat, loud in the enclosed space, and Tim thinks he might be stalling. “Are you alright?” 

“A little nervous,” Tim replies honestly. “But not about you,” he rushes to add, sliding to his feet to press his palms to the stall wall, press closer to him. He can feel his cheeks heating, and for once he’s glad Jason can’t see the effect he has on him. “I, uh, I’ve never done this before.” 

Jason snorts. “Yeah, uh, gloryholes are kind of a first for me too.” 

Tim flushes at that admission, and shuffles in his shoes. “No, um. I meant, I haven’t… done… _ that _ before.” 

There’s a cloying silence that follows, in which Tim desperately wishes he could take those words back. Jason probably thinks he’s some amateur virgin who’s never gotten his rocks off. 

He’s not _ new _ to blowjobs. He knows what they are, how they work. He had a girlfriend, once upon another lifetime. He’s just never… been the giver before. And the thought of having his lips around Jason, of being that intimate with him, is making Tim’s stomach tingle. 

Tim licks his lips, and tries to swallow down some of the saliva pooling in his mouth. 

“Do… do you want to?” Jason asks hesitantly, and Tim feels a thrill travel up the length of his spine. He feels like some high school sweetheart on prom night. 

“Yes,” Tim whispers, nails scraping on the metal stall, scratching up fresh lines of paint as he clenches his fists. He feels like he’s wound tight, his entire focus narrowed to a laser point on the man on the other side of that wall. 

“I…” Jason starts then goes silent, long enough that Tim fears he’s scared him off. “Yeah, okay. Step one, cover your teeth with your lips.” 

Tim’s ears ring, because that is most certainly the sound of a zipper. 

The hole is large enough that Tim’s certain he could get his wrist halfway through it, and he sees a flash of denim as Jason shifts in front of it. 

“Come down here,” Jason murmurs. Tim has never moved so fast in his life, knees thumping against the tiled floor. It puts him just above the hole, and at this angle all he can see is Jason’s stance before he obscures the small amount of light filtering through. Two of Jason’s fingers come through the hole, stroking over Tim’s cheek, before they both descend to press down into his lower lip. Tim can’t help it, tasting the pads of his fingers with a kittenish lick. 

Above him, Jason makes a half-choked off noise that’s muffled by the wall, apparently pleased, and draws in a steadying breath. The idea that Jason’s so affected by such a simple gesture, this early on, has Tim reeling. 

“Like this, angel…” He presses inwards, into Tim’s waiting mouth, pushing his lips back and under his teeth, which seems simple enough, but when he pulls back Tim realizes he’s going to have to cinch his lips to prevent any slippage. 

His fingers are heavy on Tim’s tongue, laced with the sharp burn of spilt alcohol as they slide into his mouth. Jason leans his weight a little more heavily against the dividing wall. “And then you just…” He pushes back inwards again, pressing down gently on his tongue, encouraging it to curl. “Like that, okay?”

Tim closes his lips over those two fingers, blushing when he pulls back down them and leaves a slick trail of saliva on Jason’s skin. The man’s breath is definitely laboured now. 

“Rule number two; breathe. Don’t take more than you can fit comfortably, okay? You can use your hands for what you can’t fit in your mouth, and trust me, most guys are happy with that.” Jason trails off faintly, sounding embarrassed. “Also, condoms. Condoms are important, _ shit. _ I’m clean, but don’t ever take someone’s word for it.”

Tim’s heart clenches, palms hot against his thighs as he sits down on his calves. It jostles the bunny tail plug in his ass, drawing a needy whimper from his occupied lips. It had been the shallowest Yolanda had been able to find him, and the reminder makes Tim simultaneously grateful and regretful. 

Jason curses softly, fingers beginning to withdraw from his lips. He clamps down, sucking sharply on the digits, desperately wanting to show him he can be good, that it doesn’t matter. 

The audible popping noise that cracks the air when Jason’s fingers leave his tongue is like a gunshot, and Jason’s inhale is sharp.

“Fuck… Teddy.” 

Tim barely manages to bite back a whimper at the loss, gasping as he presses his forehead into the stall divider. 

“Are you okay?” Jason asks, and Tim groans, low and needy. 

“I want it,” Tim murmurs, and Jason makes a soft, strangled noise. 

“Goddamn. Shit. Okay, just-” The wall shudders as Jason’s stall opens - probably kicked open, if the sound of the door ricocheting off the wall is any indication. Tim almost rises to his feet, compelled to intervene, until he hears the clatter of change on the other side of the bathroom. The small vending machines that hang on the wall are filled with mini cologne and perfumes, but also flavored lubes and various condoms; handy single use items for customers who want to have a little fun after a show. 

The loud crank of the vending machine turns on Jason’s choice, and Tim hears him linger for a moment before he returns, rustling the condom packet as he opens it. 

Tim finds himself pressed to the divider again, nails biting into his palms as he sees Jason shift on the other side. He’s so _ close, _ Tim feels like he could just reach out and grab him, wrap his palms over Jason’s sturdy thighs, drag him closer. Pull him back into his mouth for just one more _ taste- _

“It’s uhm… Better to use a flavored one for this,” Jason says, voice rough and wavering. Heat coils in Tim’s gut, making him shift impatiently on his folded knees. A packet appears in front of the hole for a brief moment. “I got you… chocolate, I think?” 

Tim nearly snorts at the ridiculousness of it. But some deep part of him is touched that Jason would be so considerate for him. He shifts until he can get a better look through the hole, and when he lines up his sights, he gasps aloud. 

_ Jason’s got a pretty dick. _

It’s bigger than his own, both in length and girth, and seems proportionate to his body size. The skin is flushed but smooth, the pretty pink head peeping from the foreskin with excited interest. Tim’s brain fizzles, because of course the Lazarus Pit would heal_ that _ too. He nearly whines when Jason slips the condom on, covering that beautiful work of art. It should be a crime, he thinks insanely.

Jason shifts, clearing his throat. “Ready?”

“Uh huh,” Tim whimpers, all but nuzzling the searing hot member when Jason pushes through the cutout. 

“Just… take your time. Whatever you wanna do, I’m happy to take.” Jason’s voice is so close yet so far away, sounding like he can’t believe he’s here doing this. Tim can’t either. He’s so preoccupied he barely latches onto what Jason is saying.

“Wha- no.” Tim frowns. “If I do something you don’t like, tell me. I’ll stop. I want to… I want this to be good for you too. So, tell me, please?”

Jason’s laugh is abashed, heartfelt.

“I… touch me? Please?” he asks wistfully. 

_ With pleasure, _ Tim thinks, wrapping his hand around the base. It’s strange, because the sensation is so familiar. But it’s not his own and the angle is wrong, and Tim’s holding Jason’s cock in the palm of his hand. His face is so hot that the wisps of his bangs feel cold against his skin, but it’s nothing in comparison to Jason’s heat. He’s so hard, _ for him, _ and Tim watches in awe when he feels it throb against his palm.

Jason’s sigh sounds like music when Tim strokes him, gently at first and growing firmer when he gains some confidence. The wall shifts slightly, Jason’s weight pressing into it, and in turn, offering himself fully through the cutout. 

“Angel, fuck…” Jason gasps, and Tim can’t take it, wrapping his lips around the head and sucks on it with a moan. He squirms, remembering how good it felt on stage when Jason’s mouth had found him, how everything had flown out of his head. He wants to be good to him, he wants to make Jason come.

He struggles to bob his head, still not used to covering his teeth. Jason's panting quietly, his breath growing harsh when Tim’s lips pull towards the tip.

“Damn,” Jason curses when Tim brings his fist up to meet his mouth, growing more confident. “That’s it, you’re doing so well, angel. J-Just like that!”

The praise sends a hot flash through him, making him shiver against the tiled floor. Mouth full, he can only moan in reply around Jason, his free hand sending fresh scratches through the paint on the stall. The wordless gasp is all the reward he needs to press forwards, Jason’s hips meeting him in earnest. 

“God, fucking _ damn_,” Jason’s head thumps against the stall. “That’s so good.” His voice is threaded with need, and Tim can’t believe he’s blessed enough to know what Jason sounds like in the throes of pleasure. That he’s the one making him feel that way. Desperate to please, he sucks hard, tilting his head.

He is unprepared when Jason thrusts in suddenly, pushing past the point of comfort. 

“Shit, sorry! Sorry!” Jason apologizes, as Tim coughs roughly.

“I-I’m fine.” Tim wipes his chin, gripping the length hard enough to keep Jason from retreating completely. He’s hungry for the whine that pitches out of Jason, watching in fascination as his dick jumps. _ He likes it rough,_ Tim realizes, going back down again. It’s awkward and clumsy, and he’s not sure he manages to cover his teeth each time, but he tries. God does he try. 

Each pass makes his jaw ache and his neck burns from the strain, but he can’t get enough of the way Jason feels against his tongue, hot and hard. The chocolate flavoring isn’t enough to cover up the taste of latex, but he doesn’t mind. It’s enough, just being here. 

Above him Jason is cursing softly, shaking the wall as he finds a rhythm that works for both of them. Tim’s really starting to hate that barrier. He wants to dig his fingers into Jason’s thighs, feel the powerful muscles tremble with each bob of his head. Instead he has to claw at the peeling paint with his free hand in frustration, moaning around a particularly sharp thrust that makes his cheek bulge obscenely.

“Oh… ffffuck!” Jason keens, fist pounding the wall loudly. Tim jumps, heart rattling his ribs as he pulls back hurriedly.

“Did I hurt you?” He sits back on his calves, grimacing at how much his thighs are burning from the high kneel.

“Angel,” Jason sounds winded. “You almost made me come.” 

“Oh," Tim murmurs, his own hips flexing involuntarily at the thought. He leans forward in a trance to brush his lips over the head again, laving his tongue over the tip. 

“Fuck, I want to touch you,” Jason begs. “_Angel, please, don’t stop._”

_ Not even if Batman crashed through the ceiling, _ Tim thinks as he strokes him tightly in his fist. He doesn’t hesitate to wrap his lips around him again, determined not to disappoint. He can make Jason come. He wants to know what he sounds like when does, wants to commit the sound to memory. Tim pulls off him with a pop, Jason’s gasp choked and garbled.

He wants to taste him. 

“Take it off,” Tim begs. “Please.” 

“I-” Jason sounds wrecked, before he clears his throat. “You don’t want that. Trust me. I’m gonna pop.” 

“I _ do,_” Tim whines. 

“Next time.” Jason’s voice is faint, like he’s struggling to stay the voice of reason. A large part of Tim wants to be disappointed, but the promise of more tempers his eagerness. He squeezes Jason again, his focus going fuzzy when he realizes there’s more than just the dab of lubricant inside the condom now, all because of his efforts. Jason is so close he’s leaking, choking off pained-sounding grunts at each touch.

“Okay,” Tim breathes shakily, as he conjures up images of Steph, and what she used to do to him. What he liked, what drove him insane. He sures his grip, pumping firm and fast, his cheeks hollowing. Once, twice, four times, and on the fifth one Jason lets out a high pitched gasp, thrusting to meet his mouth. In and in, Tim’s eyes tearing up as he chokes, but he doesn’t stop. _ Like a milkshake,_ Steph had winked at him years ago, when they fooled around on her bed while her mom slept down the hall.

It’s wordless, but Tim understands the cry Jason makes when he finally comes undone, throbbing violently against Tim’s tongue. 

It’s strange to not feel the pulse of wet inside his mouth, and to his surprise Tim almost misses it. How he can miss something he’s never even had, he doesn’t know, but a part of him aches for it regardless. He settles for basking in the scorching heat of Jason heavy on his tongue, throbbing through his orgasm as he pounds the divider loud enough to make Tim moan. 

He holds Jason in the suction of his mouth for several beats, listening to the man come down from his high, savoring every soft sound. Jason pulls away first, and air fills Tim’s lungs, finally aware that he forgot to breathe like he was instructed to. He pants, head hanging as he catches his breath, staring at his own erection tenting the tiny skin-thin lingerie he’d squeezed into for his shift. 

Jason is shifting on his feet, boots scuffing the tile as he goes through the motions of cleanup, though he sounds rushed, the zipper practically ripping as he fixes his fly. Tim’s heart starts to pound double time when he realizes Jason is coming into his stall.

Jason seems just as eager as he is, the door almost coming off the hinge as he yanks it open. His eyes are _ green, _unnatural in the low light of the bathroom, and he looks ravenous. Tim sags against the stall, unable to stop from arching his hips against the seam of his teddy. Jason’s henley is rucked up his stomach, leaving a small expanse of his abs to the world, and all Tim wants is to rip it off and taste the sheen of sweat that glistens there.

Jason isn’t looking at his face, Tim realizes after a moment of panting, and he practically burns with need when Jason finally flicks his gaze up to meet his. The larger man’s jaw sets in determination, and he strides forward before dropping down to crouch in front of him.

“Fuck, angel,” Jason gasps, cupping his face. His hand feels cool against his skin, he’s blushing so hard. His eyes are a little unfocused, soft, some sweat spotting his temples as he strokes a thumb over Tim’s lips, mesmerised. “Can I kiss you? Please?” 

Tim starts, blushing impossibly darker as he laughs. More to offset the fluttering in his chest than anything else. “You want to kiss me after that?” 

Jason groans like there’s nothing else he’d rather have his mouth on right now. “Yeah, angel. Absolutely, yes.” 

So Tim tips his weight forward, rising up on his knees to meet Jason’s eager mouth. He kisses like he fights, passion tempered with finesse. He seems to find all the spots that make Tim’s knees go weak, clever tongue plying him with ease.

Tim clings to him, arching sharply against the length of his body, gasping when he gets too close. His hips scorch against Jason’s leg, the whole of him vibrating with need as Jason’s hands work a bruise into Tim’s sides. Their mouths part, but Jason kisses his cheek, then his ear, his hands suddenly cupping his backside. His fingers work the plug into him gently, wrangling a choked cry out of Tim, and just like that he’s picking Tim up bodily and guiding him to ride his thigh. 

Tim moans, high and sharp, eyes fluttering at the sweet friction. Jason’s sturdy and solid, rocking his leg up for him, pressing just where he wants it, _ needs it. _

“So good for me,” Jason groans, voice thick against Tim’s ear. “I got you.” 

“Jay!” Tim wants his legs around that trim waist, struggling to convince his limbs to cooperate with how delicious Jason feels beneath him. His fingers scrabble against Jason’s nape, twisting into the dark hair there for purchase. “P-Please!” 

Jason’s hand slides around his hip, teasing beneath the line of Tim's teddy, but he lets it go with a snap when the bathroom door suddenly bursts open with raucous laughter. 

“TIME’S UP, BITCHES!” Long Johnson cackles, crowding the doorway. “It’s my turn!” 

Jason and Tim swivel towards the bathroom door in sync, blinking owlishly. Charla is under the dancer’s leanly muscled arm, smiling without a single ounce of sympathy as the door clatters shut behind them. The sound jerks the pair of them from their heated moment like a dash of ice. 

“Sorry, kiddos,” she calls loudly, “Yolanda’s orders. We gave y’all half an hour already.” 

Charla steps into the bathroom, heels echoing on the tile. Her brow raises when she spots them huddled in the single stall, before she cackles and unties her bar apron from her waist, dropping it over Tim’s lap. He eases himself off Jason, careful not to embarrass himself as he scrambles for a grip on the apron. He blushes when Jason stands, shielding him from view as he ties the apron around his waist, hyper-aware that Jason’s watching. 

Tim’s just a little bit proud that he manages to walk out of the bathroom on his own two feet, because he’s lightheaded enough now that he might topple over. His lips feel bruised, swollen like after a fight, and he doesn’t dare think about what he must look like as they shuffle out of the bathroom. 

Jason keeps a steadying hand on his waist, shielding him with half his large frame as the group choruses their return. Tim squeaks with embarrassment when Tommy raises a beer in their direction, cheering. 

He sounds a little tipsy, giggling, “You two sweethearts look like you’ve been having fun,” and emphasises with a slow lick of his lips. Tim really envies Jason’s helmet right about now, because he doesn’t know if he’ll ever stop blushing again. 

“Stuff it, Nebraska,” Jason rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t sound mad in the slightest. He’s smiling, a secret little grin that Tim knows is still the Robin in him. It soothes some of Tim’s panic, dragging his heart rate down to an acceptable tempo. 

Tim buries himself in Jason’s side beneath the onslaught of Tommy’s eyebrow waggling, until he can sneak a glance up at the larger man. It’s then that Jason’s eyes go soft, the green glow flared out into a more placid teal. His gaze flicks down to Tim’s parted lips and back again, unreadable once more. Tim thinks he looks a little breathless. 

“C’mere,” Jason croons, guiding him towards the group with a large hand in the small of his back. It firms around his hip, easily lifting him as Jason mounts a bar stool. Tim finds himself tucked into Jason’s lap, angled with his knees under the counter so that the bar hides the way he’s obviously erect. Tommy has the good Midwestern manners not to mention it, but he does coo when Jason shields him again, one arm slung comfortably low on Tim’s waist to hold him steady. 

Tim wants to melt under the attention of the crowd, and he does to an extent, relaxing against Jason’s broad chest. His thighs ache to press together, hyper aware of those calloused fingers wrapped around his hip. Jason could jerk him off here and now and he’d happily let him. 

The attention lifts from them after a few moments as Tim is reunited with his half-finished gin and tonic, and Jason is slid a whiskey across the wood, the conversation growing to a raucous roar when someone brings out a game of Twister. 

He can’t help but think about the Tower, during the scant moments of peace when he and his old team would just be the kids they were supposed to be. Titans Twister had been challenging, but it had never gotten this raunchy before, even when Garfield and some of the older Titans had played with them. 

He winces in sympathy at some of the impossible moves the players have to try to accomplish. Some things are only possible for a Flying Grayson, afterall. 

Tim manages to will away his problem enough that he can throw off the apron, but that simmering heat lingers in his veins for the rest of the night, sparking whenever Jason’s palm massages into his hip or his knuckles brush down Tim’s thigh. He ends up draped over Jason’s lap by closing, curled over the bar, strategically straddling the man’s massive thighs. If he shifts back against Jason’s lap more times than is sensible just to hear the punched out little gasp Jason gives him, no one’s the wiser. 

It’s intoxicating, feeling Jason react to him like that, to have him so compromised by the sheer proximity of Tim. It feels far too soon before Jason is easing him back to the floor, straightening off the bar stool to help the few sober enough to still be standing with the clean up. 

Tim’s only a little disappointed when their plans for Jason to walk him home to the motel are derailed by Tommy dropping off his bar stool like a drunk honeybee**. **He lays there on the floor, giggling when a few of the dancers come to his aid, but he’s too drunk to tell them where his keys are. Yolanda huffs good-naturedly, catching Jason’s eye.

“Jackie, you mind if he bunks with you? I’ve got to make sure Twinka gets home safely; his chaperone is drunk as shit.” Yolanda jerks a thumb over to where Charla and Long Johnson are leaning into one another, laughing bodily as they share shots. 

Jason apologizes to him a hundred times over before Tim manages to push the pair of them out the door and into a taxi with the promise that he’ll see Jason tomorrow. He does lean through the window to peck Jason on the cheek before the cab pulls away from the curb, though. 

The dazed little grin Jason gives him in return lingers in Tim’s memory the whole trek home, even as he peels off his outfit and scrubs through a spartan shower to get the grime of spilt alcohol off his skin. Then he slumps back on his bed sheets with a smile, limbs exhausted and weary but that fire still smouldering in his veins. 

He runs his fingers over his navel and that’s all it takes to set himself ablaze. 

_ “So good for me…” _Jason’s sex rough tone had him in tatters. 

_ Jesus Christ,_ Jason Todd had fucked his mouth. He didn’t bother to muzzle himself here in this room, grinding down into the bed as he slides his hand beneath the waistband of his loose pants. His mind whirls with fantasies, and when he closes his eyes he can imagine the bed is Jason’s chest and his hand isn’t his own. 

He forces himself to untwist his free hand from their desperate grip on the bed sheets, and presses them between his lips. The crappy springs squeal as Tim pistons into his fist, chasing the taste of Jason’s lingering whiskey kisses, the slide of Jason inside him, until it becomes unbearable. 

So Tim takes himself in hand firmly, heels digging into the mattress when he arches off the bed and comes. With two fingers in his mouth, pressing down on his tongue, and Jason's name filling his throat. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song of the Night is “Bad Reputation” by Joan Jett and The Blackhearts. 


	8. Super Slut Saturday

Jason wakes to something tickling his nose, and he rumbles his displeasure, rolling onto his side. Slowly, he becomes aware of his surroundings, the lumpy couch beneath him making his body ache at the points of contact. The coffee pot is bubbling and hissing away in the distance, the wonderful scent starting to permeate the air. Whatever was pestering him doesn’t go away, returning against his exposed ear, tickling with a vengeance. He throws off the ugly afghan with a roar, hand snapping out to catch whatever is tormenting him. 

“Holy shit!” Tommy gasps, doubling back as he sags to the floor, clipping the overladen coffee table with his hip as he collapses. Jason lets go immediately, wide awake now. 

“Shit! Sorry!” Jason babbles, planting his feet on the floor. The red ring around Tommy’s wrist is going to bruise, and remorse needles between his brows. “I thought you were Roy.” 

“Ow.” Tommy shakes his wrist out, bruised but not broken, and gives him a reassuring smile. Jason rubs his face. “Dang, you’ve got a grip like a vice!” 

“Yeah, I guess it’s from all the pole work.” He winces, hoisting up off the couch and offering Tommy a hand to pull him to his feet. He blinks at the blonde for a moment once he’s upright, the world reasserting itself as Jason points an accusing finger. “Why are you not hungover?” 

Tommy’s baby blues bat at him. At first glance he looks fine, but now Jason can see the dark circles under his eyes through the remnants of his foundation and powder. His teeth flash through an apologetic smile. 

“I am, kinda. Sorry about your toilet. I didn’t know where your cleaner was.” He doesn’t look very sorry, eyes sparkling with laughter. 

“S’fine.” Jason shakes his head as he shuffles to the kitchen, yawning. “Think you can handle eggs?” 

“Just toast, please.” Tommy follows him shortly, watching Jason rummage through his kitchen. The blonde turns a little green at the gills when Jason cracks some eggs into the cast iron skillet, and the vigilante hides a smirk as Tommy flies to the bathroom again, pitiless to his plight. 

Retching noises drift through the apartment, a background melody to the hiss of bacon and eggs getting scraped around the pan. Like he is summoned by an aromatic Bat signal, Roy shambles in through the living room window, peeling his domino off. He looks tired, but he’s still in one piece from a night out busting balls, so that has to count for something. He barely gets in a hello before Tommy’s gut-wrenching noises drown him out. 

The second Roy’s boots hit the carpet he shares a wide-eyed stare with Jason. Then he’s ducking behind the couch, already shedding his gear with little grace. It’s only the kind of dumb luck that seems to follow Roy Harper around that he even manages to strip entirely and shove his gear under the ugly couch before Tommy comes out of the bedroom, grimacing at the taste of regurgitated Jack Daniels on his teeth. 

“Oh!” Tommy shutters to a halt when Roy pops up from behind the couch, flushed and holding a throw pillow over his crotch.

“T-Tommy.” Roy reaches up to tip his hat before he realizes he’s not wearing it anymore, and his blush grows, making his freckles all the more prominent. “Fancy meeting you here.” 

“Sorry…” Tommy shoots a puzzled look at Jason’s back, innocently cooking breakfast as if he doesn’t find the nude redhead’s presence out of the ordinary. “A-am I interrupting?” 

Jason’s spatula clatters as he fumbles to recover it. “No!” 

“I was out,” Roy says quickly. “Uh, downstairs, having a bit of fun with a college chick. Her Dad came home, so I had to escape before he caught us? Windows are close enough together so it was the fastest way out.” 

Jason inwardly groans in relief when Tommy seems to buy it. He plunks down their respective meals on the coffee table and throws the afgan at Roy, before retreating for the coffee pot. 

“Go get decent, you hooligan.” 

“What no bacon for me?” Roy doesn’t bother to cover up, winking at Tommy. The blonde beams, a wicked gleam to his smile when he returns the wink. 

“Pervs who stay out all night don’t get bacon. It’s the law.” 

Jason switches on the television, making a face at the news channel. Vicki Vale is on, and he absolutely cannot stand her. She’s doing some puff piece about revitalizing the edges of Gotham’s darker corners. Only the parts that butt up to the nicer sections, of course. 

“Gentrification, Vicki, call it what it is,” he grumbles around a mouthful of eggs. 

“God, how can you eat right now?” Tommy picks at his toast, nibbling a piece of crust gingerly before he reaches for his fresh cup of brew. 

“Know thy limit.” Jason touches the end of his own nose, going cross-eyed. “If you can’t feel your nose it’s time to stop partaking.” 

“Really? Never heard that one before.” The blonde leans his elbow on the back of the couch, fist propping his throbbing head up. He tracks Roy’s backside with his gaze when the man returns from foraging clothing, licking his lips as Jason’s dingiest pair of boxer briefs cling to the svelte curves of the archer’s ass. 

“I dunno ‘bout you, but I didn’t get to eat much as a kid. Throwing up is such a waste.” Jason stuffs two pieces of bacon into his mouth pointedly, catching Tommy’s distracted gaze. “And Gotham gave me an iron stomach.” 

Tommy snorts, but refocuses on polishing off his single slice of toast. “I’ve thrown up in nearly every bar and back alley between here and Nebraska. Iron stomach aside, I used to party _ hard._” 

“Still do, from what I can see,” Roy quips, and Tommy waggles his eyebrows at the redhead. 

He still shrugs, sprawling out a little more comfortably next to Jason. “You’ve gotta enjoy the small things in life. Like bacon. There’s worse things in life than getting caught up about how much you eat. Or lose.” 

“Sometimes I get caught up on food still,” Jason admits sheepishly, and elaborates when Tommy cocks his head, combing out his blond hair with his fingers. “‘Waste not want not’, that sort of thing. We had barely any to spare when I was growing up; I still can’t bring myself to throw food away sometimes, even when I know I should.” 

Tommy nods sagely, smiling. “Reminds me of my dad. We used to hunt, back home in Nebraska. I knew how to butcher a deer by the time I was eleven. He’d always tell us to use every organ - let nothing go to waste. We’d ice a whole carcass each season, work our way through the meat.” The man looks distant, glowing fondly with the memory. “Stews, pies, steaks - you name it. I kind of miss it, sometimes.” 

He shifts, the corners of his lips looking a little sad when he flashes Jason a grin. 

“You don’t get good game around cities like Gotham. Have to make do with frozen supermarket crap.” He laughs, teeth gleaming. 

Jason doesn't miss the way Roy side-eyes them from the kitchen, holding his coffee mug in mid-sip. They've worked together so long they don’t even need words to communicate half the time. If the kitchen had a corkboard with string theories, Tommy’s picture would be getting a nice shiny new pin right under ‘suspects’. 

Closing his eyes, Jason swallows the last of his meal, hesitant suspicion chasing it down like a bad cup of joe. 

“You still know how to hunt?” Jason prods casually, and Tommy makes a noise of obvious assent. 

“Oh yeah,” he says. “When you grow up on a farm in the Midwest, you get real familiar with hunting and butchering deer and cattle real quick. It’s a way of life. Doesn’t leave you easily.” 

“You must miss it sometimes,” Roy adds with a note of false intrigue. Jason studies Tommy’s expression when he turns to the archer. “I take my bow out west every now and then, hunt some small game in the forests. You still hunt around here?” 

Tommy’s nose scrunches. “Not really. Small game is fine and all, but it ain’t nothing like taking down a warm-blooded mammal. I don’t know,” he adds sheepishly, a self-conscious blush rising on his cheeks. “Guess it’s how I was raised.” 

“We should go hunting sometime,” Roy insists, and Jason can taste the lead. “Show me how good you are with a bow and arrow. Unless you can only take down a deer with a rifle like some gun-cocky Midwesterner?” 

Tommy grins at the teasing, arching a coy brow. “Oh no, I can use a bow. I may have been raised on rifle shooting, but I’ve got a damn good eye for bowhunting. I can use nearly anything to take down a deer, God willing. Knife, bow, rifle. You name it, I can kill with it.” 

Jason tries to ignore how his veins chill at that statement, and he’s silently glad to have Roy to distract when the man brays a challenging laugh. “You’re on, cowboy.” 

* * *

Whether it's his good Midwestern manners or the numbing effect of the ibuprofen on his splitting headache, Tommy doesn’t overstay his welcome, collecting his things and waving himself out the door with a thousand thank yous. Roy watches him go with a forlorn look in his eye, but it’s quick to pass behind a yawn when Jason suggests he catch a few hours of shut eye. He groans a slurred goodnight, waving forlornly while Jason settles in on the couch to research. 

He sets up his repaired laptop while the bedroom door clicks closed behind the redhead, and pulls up his database to begin digging. Jason pours himself a new cup of lukewarm coffee and checks that the door is definitely locked behind Tommy before he launches into his investigation. 

He managed to tag Tommy’s file for easy retrieval, so it takes him no time at all to start digging. He’d barely glossed him over at first, finding nothing of note in his adult records when he’d done his usual rundown of the Daily O’s employees. But now with a little further suspicion putting the wind in his sails, Jason thinks this recent development warrants a deeper investigation. 

He can practically hear Bruce’s disappointment from the other side of town, because if there was one thing the man drove home it was to always cover your bases. It wasn’t until now that he’d had any reason to suspect the friendly blonde. Jason could kick himself over the rookie mistake. He does his best to channel his frustration into more productive avenues, like cracking open a small Nebraska courthouse’s electronic records. 

Tommy’s got a sealed juvenile court file from his teens, buried deep in the county archives. Jason thinks he might have to go dig through some backwater town’s city hall for all of twenty minutes before his subroutine connects and grants him access to their electronic database. 

It’s for a carjacking, he discovers upon downloading the file, back when he’d been fifteen. From the attached scanned police report, Jason’s able to discern that the car had been empty when Tommy and another boy - whose name appears to be redacted - had gone joyriding. They’d gotten all of five miles down the road before they’d lost control and pranged the stolen vehicle into a ditch trying to outrun the local cop cruiser. 

It’s not until Jason’s gaze alights on the accompanying B & E charge that his stomach starts to knot with something more sinister. The two hooligans had broken into a house sometime in the early hours of an April morning, jimmying open the door and prowling through the dark to steal God only knows what. They apparently hadn’t been as covert as they’d hoped to be, because their snooping had awoken the owner. 

Small country town residents, Jason muses, are about as trigger-happy as city slick gangbangers. The boys had fled at the sight of the gun, according to Tommy’s sworn statement nestled deep in his case file, and snagged the keys off the kitchen counter in their haste to bolt. Hadn’t even broken a single window on the rustbucket; the only damage the insurance company reported was the front bumper being bent into a pretzel. 

It’s not the worst rap sheet Jason’s ever seen. It doesn’t even make the top one hundred. All in all, it just sounds like some teenage fun gone wrong, two hooligans brushing up against the law. 

He pulls up the hearing anyway, just to check the sentencing. The local esteemed county judge Justice Henry George Miller, Sr had presided over the matter, and after a thorough talking to, Tommy had picked up four hundred hours of community service and three years probation. There’d been some threat of felony theft for unauthorised use of a propelled vehicle, but it had ultimately come down to a misdemeanour. And it had gone on his permanent record. 

Jason can practically picture the cowed look on a teenage Tommy’s features, the soft “yes sir, no sir” of his timbre in court. The experience had evidently left a mark on the teen, because he doesn’t have so much as a parking ticket against his name from there on out. Didn’t violate a single day of his probation until he’d skipped town the day it had lapsed. 

Hardly the criminal mastermind Jason had feared he’d be. There’s a chance Tommy’s buried some of his past, but given that he’s still got a juvenile record under his true name, Jason doubts he’d been working under fake IDs for anything other than underage drinking. And Jason can sort of forgive wanting to bury your past mistakes. He’s in no position to judge. 

He rubs his face, not liking what he’s going to have to do next. Since research is turning up empty, he’s going to have to get up close and personal instead. Digging through someone’s things and invading their space isn’t something he usually loses sleep over, but he’s gotten nowhere with this case, and Tommy’s gotten under his skin with all this talk of butchery. 

Missing organs, methodical dismemberment. It’s not a guarantee, but nothing in this line of work ever is. It's plausible though, and that's enough to set Jason’s nerves on edge. He doesn’t want to suspect Tommy of something so gruesome. The man’s a picture of goodwill and innocence; he’s been nothing but friendly since Jason first set up his cover. 

That’s exactly what has him worried. Jason wonders whether he’s overlooked the man as a suspect, whether he should have been so quick to dismiss him early in his investigation. Whether this cover has got his head so wrapped up and pulled in so many directions that he can’t trust his intuition anymore. 

It’s times like these Jason almost envies the cold, calculated rationality Bruce and Tim seem to have in spades. Jason’s tactical, he knows his strategy plays back to front, always knows what to do in a tight situation. Improvising is his lifeblood. And he’s no stranger to investigations, but he can’t help but wonder if Tim would have cracked it wide open with only a glance if Bruce had assigned him the case. 

It leaves a bitter taste in his mouth and Jason swallows, checking the clock above the stove. He’s got a few hours before he’s needed for the Daily O’s most popular evening. He can afford to tail the blonde for a little while, just to ease his conscience. If he’s innocent, Jason will probably be able to scratch him off the board post haste. 

And if he’s not, well… 

Then Jason will have a lead, as much as he’ll wish it were anybody else. 

Maybe he just needs to clear his head. Maybe Jason’s so overworked running covers and cleaning up Crime Alley on a three hour sleep schedule that he’s missing something staring him right in the face. 

_ Got more in common with the replacement than I thought, _ Jason muses wryly, and closes his laptop. A night to himself, to just enjoy his time at the club and with Teddy, sounds good. A chance to reset his breakers, clear his head out so he can refocus on this new information, sounds like just what the doctor ordered. 

Jason smiles to himself at the memory of his outfit. He’d picked it out specially, called in all his favours with Yolanda to get a matching set put together for their biggest night. If he’s on the money, he’ll bring in more cash tonight than he has for any of his Sunday routines. 

And more importantly, he’ll get to see Teddy wearing his pièce de résistance. Jason can already feel his mind clearing of all other thoughts. 

_ Tonight is going to be a good night, _ he decides. Come rain, hail or Arkham breakout, Jason’s going to make sure he enjoys tonight. Really just lives in the moment for once. He’s earnt it. 

* * *

Tim doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to look Clark in the eye the next time he sees him. Or Wally. God help him, he really hopes he doesn’t have to go to the Watchtower anytime this century, because he’s never going to be able to _ not _ superimpose the scantily clad costumes the dancers are sporting over his childhood heroes in the flesh. Yolanda had summoned him to the Pit for wardrobe call, which meant he was forced to descend into what closely resembled a porno parody set.

Tommy flashes a brilliant smile at him from his dressing table, decked out in a skin tight version of Wonder Woman’s earliest costume. It’s little more than a shimmery red tube top with gold embroidery, all but sewn into a pair of metallic hip-cut blue shorts. Her signature stars are covered in sequins, bangled all the way around his hips. He’s putting the finishing touches on his hair, feathering his soft blonde locks in Farrah Fawcett waves. 

“What do you think?” He winks at Tim as he neatly places the golden tiara onto his head, the glitter making it shine otherworldly in the Hollywood lighting of his mirror.

Diana’s boots hadn’t been that red or shiny, nor had she worn golden garters. She’d approve though, Tim thinks absently.

“Love it.” Tim smiles, picking up a length of spray-painted gold rope from a prop bin when the dancer beckons. He hands it off to the blonde wryly. “Have you seen Yolanda? They told me she wanted me to get fitted.”

“Oh!” Tommy stands, towering in the stiletto boots. Tim cranes his head back to hold his gaze as he beams. “She’s back towards the right.” 

“Thanks.” 

She’s much further back than he expected when he finally finds her, busily pinning a bowtie on another server some hot-nerd take on Jimmy Olsen. Tim can’t smother the smile breaking over his lips, amusement getting the better of him. He knows Lois would absolutely get a kick of out it. Yolanda smacks the giggling twink lightly on the bottom to shoo him when she spots him, and smiles like a cat who got the canary. 

“Teddy, there you are.” She stands on tip toe to pull down a black garment bag from the overhanging rack and drapes it over her arm. “Hurry up and undress, we have to get you ready. You were specially requested tonight, darlin'.” 

Tim pulls the zipper of his jacket down, pausing. 

“Uh...” 

“Not like that,” she assures him, grabbing a green shoe box off a nearby shelf. “One of the dancers wanted a sidekick.” 

Tim snorts under his breath, stuffing his clothes into his backpack. Yolanda unzips the garment bag, a flash of green catching the corner of his eye. 

“Oh no.” He pales as she lifts his designated outfit from the bag with something akin to reverence. 

“Oh yes, honey.” She smiles fondly, running her hand over the glittering fabric. Tim glances between her broad, eager grin and the glimmer of a thousand sequins, and resigns himself to his treacherous fate. 

* * *

Tim decides he is going to murder Dick. Or at least inconvenience him a little. He shuffles nervously as he leaves wardrobe, trying to be discreet as he tugs out the wedgie threatening to lodge between his cheeks again. So many years wearing the _R_ symbol and he’d managed to avoid the short pants until today. How in the hell Dick wore something like this until he was almost a grown man is mind boggling, but Tim supposes he just doesn’t have the showman roots his predecessor has. Not that he can begin to work out how the hell Dick managed to do _ flips _ in these panties and keep them decent. Just walking is treacherous enough. Secretly he thinks Dick has a few kinks he’s never admitted to, and Tim ponders talking to Kori for some blackmail material. If anyone knew about Dick’s possible mishaps in the short pants, it would be her.

It’s not nearly as skimpy as some of the other outfits he’s donned for this case, the tunic modestly fastened up to his throat, but he feels helplessly exposed all the same. His heart is threatening to go on strike any second now. It’s too close to comfort and he’s terrified of Jason seeing him so blatantly. He can’t find out like this, Tim thinks desperately, cursing himself and his stupid hormones for getting swept up in Jason’s roguish charms. 

Tim paws at his hair in the reflection of a nearby disco ball, mesmerised by the boyish curls. Apparently Yolanda had a fondness for the second Boy Wonder, because the way she’s wrangled and revitalised his limp perm into feathery locks is clearly a tribute to Jason - and Tim can’t help but feel his knees go weak at the suggestion that he looks like his preteen idol. Between the work-of-witchcraft hairstyle and the thick domino of kohl around his eyes, Tim barely looks himself. It’ll probably be his only saving grace when it comes to Jason not recognising him in the jewel tones. 

The Pit is empty now, the dancers having gone to their stations on the floor to welcome the incoming customers. The prickle on the back of his neck is the only thing that alerts Tim to being stalked, and it’s far too late by the time he notices. Tim restrains himself from reacting in any Bat-like manner that might raise suspicion, jumping lightly when someone touches him. He’s proud of the performance right up until Jason’s velvet drawl curls into the shell of his ear. 

“I knew you’d look good in the panties.” 

It’s fond, but underscored by an obvious desire that turns Tim’s knees to putty. His face grows warm as Jason chuckles, that husky baritone chasing his commonsense right out of his head. He eases into the bigger man’s touch when Jason’s hands meet around his waist, pulling him back against his broad chest. 

“Jack,” Tim says breathlessly, trying to turn to look at him and running up against that strong jaw before he can so much as turn his head. “Don’t make fun of me.” 

Reaching back to bat at Jason gently, he feels giddy when he meets bare skin. Soft, velvety skin, hiding all that hard muscle Tim knows Jason packs on like iron. It sends a tremor of surprise through him, and he can’t curb the urge to let his hands roam, skirting over either side of those broad hips and slowly down his legs. Tim whimpers when his palms meet no resistance, his mind’s eye painting a dangerously appetising picture of what Jason must be wearing. He arches against him, burning with the urge to turn and _ look, _ both hands clamping onto those legendary thighs in their naked glory. They are just as magnificent as he imagined; he can’t stop himself from squirming. 

“M’not making fun of you,” Jason hums sincerely, splaying his fingers low over Tim’s belly, and idly strokes the other hand over Tim’s own bared thigh. He’s wearing gloves of some sort, the fingerpads textured, probably for grip on the pole. Tim feels like he’s being roughed up, delicious heat gathering where Jason’s palms press. Jason chuckles, low and deep in a way that Tim can feel through his thin fabric, and purrs, “I have a question for you, angel.”

“Y-yeah?” Tim trembles, quite sure breathing wasn’t this hard to do a minute ago. He squeezes down on the sturdy thighs behind him unconsciously, blushing when the taller man chuckles at the reaction. Jason kisses along his jaw and down his neck, forcing his head to tilt with the movement, exposing his scarred jugular to the man’s wandering lips. 

He feels captive beneath the man’s bulk, encompassed in a way that’s so very different from that rooftop. The swooping feeling in his stomach is still there, but it’s warm now, pooling rapidly behind his navel. Nothing like the icy chill beneath Jason’s blade. His lips are so soft on Tim’s throat, and his darkened lashes flutter beneath the featherlight assault. 

“Be my Robin?” 

It’s deep and guttural, nearly a growl. A sheer thrill lances through Tim’s core, knees knocking together as heat floods between them. He doesn’t even need to look down to confirm he’s hard as a rock and tenting the scaley panties shamelessly. Sweat begins to bead at the base of his spine, embarrassment and arousal fighting for dominance. 

His sweat slick palms slide down Jason’s thighs, meeting a band of leather partway that Tim can only assume are _ boots, _ and he moans at the image that swirls behind his eyelids. He wants to turn, wants to _ look, _ wants to capture all of him in impeccable glory. A selfish memento he can cherish when this is all over. For the first time in a long time, Tim’s hands ache for a camera. 

Laughter drifts from the staircase, close enough that it sounds like people could be coming into the Pit any second, and it’s the bucket of ice water Tim desperately needs to get a hold of himself. Jason doesn’t seem nearly as perturbed by their unplanned guests, or the fact that they’re groping each other in the corridor. 

“Someone’s coming,” Tim hisses, the sound rising into a groan he can’t stifle when Jason’s gloved finger teases at the elastic band on the leg of his shorts. He _ does _ manage to clamp down on the urge to rock back towards that finger, even as it makes a slow trek over the curve of his ass. The world spins, Tim going dizzy from more than just the way he’s being touched as Jason manoeuvres them back into wardrobe and behind several racks of costumes, out of view. 

The laughter fades as the people pass unaware, but that doesn’t halt Jason’s other hand as it slides up his chest, plucking at the hidden buttons of his uniform, toying with him. Tim shudders when Jason’s thumb skirts over his nipple, another kiss pressing to the side of his bared shoulder. 

“Oh yeah. Someone’s gonna _ come _ alright,” Jason promises darkly, hand parting from Tim’s ass long enough to pull aside the front of his scaley shorts. There’s such a practiced ease to the motion that Tim realizes that Jason’s probably done this before during his own stint as Robin. The thought alone nearly sends Tim catatonic, a whine catching in his throat. 

Jason guides Tim’s embarrassingly hard erection out in time to save the costume from the inevitable mess Tim’s about to make, humming softly into the high collar on his neck. Tim blushes fiercely, sagging back against the taller man as he runs those delicious gauntlets over his sensitive flesh, dragging a moan out of his throat. 

“Jay,” Tim bites his lip to stop from being too loud, blindly reaching back to wrap his arm around Jason’s neck, arching into his gloved touch. 

It’s enough that he can press his head back into Jason’s collarbone, let his gaze wander up to where he knows the man’s face will be, and the sight he finds makes his breath stutter between parted lips. 

He’s in the cowl. The _ actual _ cowl, not some poor quality Halloween replica. Tim would know that kevlar weave anywhere. He doesn’t know _ how _ Jason managed to get his hands on one of Bruce’s old cowls, but he knows his eye for detail never lies. 

It smothers the familiar arch of his brow, hides the curl of white fringe that Tim usually aches to run fingers through. The lenses have been removed to bare Jason’s deep blue eyes - now tinged with flecks of Lazarus green - to the dim light, and Tim melts at the sight. The stiff material only serves to emphasise his already firm jawline, the red plush of those lips. God, Tim wants to taste those lips. 

There’s no doubt in his mind who Jason is dressed as right now, not between the dark fabric at his back and the iconic panes of that cowl. The familiar weight of the cape seeps over him, engulfing him in their embrace. He’s thankful for the extra cover, because he can’t imagine the picture they make right now. Vicki Vale would have a conniption if she knew what the two former Robins were getting up to. 

The embarrassing cry that rips out of this throat when Jason scrapes his thumb right over the head of his erection is almost loud enough to give away their position. His legs finally abandon him, going weak as a kitten as his eyes roll back. 

“Easy there,” Jason whispers, kissing his ear again as he steadies him in his grip, shifting his free arm to wrap around his waist. His thumb dips beneath the tunic, dragging over Tim’s stomach to raise gooseflesh. “I got you.” And he does, giving him a gentle squeeze to reassure him. 

“J-Jay,” Tim stutters, turning into the man’s mouth. Jason’s smile is sharp against his lips, obviously pleased. 

“This okay, angel?” 

Tim nods frantically, toes curling in the pixie boots Yolanda had pulled for him. They’re a size too big, and the irony isn’t lost on him that he can’t even fill _these_ shoes, but it melts away as Jason hums against him. He’s unable to stop squirming, restless with pleasure. It’s so good but it’s not enough, he wants to be naked and bent over a bed somewhere more private - but he doesn’t want Jason to stop touching him either. He can only imagine what it would be like, his stomach practically flipping at the thought of Jason pushing him into the mattress with each powerful thrust of his hips. God, he can practically hear the shitty motel bed squeaking under them now. 

Jason wouldn’t be a one and done kind of guy; Tim knows his stamina must be legendary thanks to the training he’s endured. He’s seen him run over rooftops and tumble in the streets for hours on end without breaking much of a sweat. It’s exciting to imagine it being put to the test in more creative ways. 

A high whine tumbles out of his chest, the back of his skull crashing against Jason’s sternum, cheeks growing hot. The glide of Jason’s fist is slick now, his own excitement easing the way. The soft, lewd squelches are muted beneath the cape, mingling with his appreciative gasps. He’s close enough that he starts to lose the little composure he has left, pulsing helplessly against Jason’s fingers. 

Jason noses into his curly locks, tugging at the lobe of Tim’s ear as he murmurs, “You didn’t answer me.” 

Tim blinks, unable and unwilling to string together enough brain cells to remember the question. Jason must take pity on him, because he chuckles and pulls back a little to repeat it. 

“Will you be my Robin, angel?” 

It hits so close to home, skirting the edges of the ache that Bruce’s replacement and Dick’s rejection has left in him. But it doesn’t hurt like remembering Damian’s apparent superiority had previously. Tim sinks into the sturdiness of Jason, the familiar caress of the cape, and his chest swells with the need to be his. Wholly and completely. 

It’s _ Jason. His _ Jason, his idol and his inspiration. In every inch of glorious flesh behind him. 

And Jason wants Tim. Not the golden original Dick or the adept Damian. Just Tim, here and now. Uncompromised and unchanged, in every way that Tim feared he’d be rejected for. 

Two Robins, both lost and now found. They might have their many differences, but in their rejection from the fold, they are similar in ways they’d never been able to be around Bruce. 

They are a new dynamic duo all their own. More than Tim could have ever imagined, could have ever hoped for. _ Jason’s Robin. _

The thought fills him, sets his veins simmering as he clenches down on the man’s thighs, nails biting and throat bared as he offers himself up completely. 

“Oh, God… _ yes!_” 

* * *

Jason fixes him up after their tryst, tugging Tim’s sequined shorts back into place as he works on getting his legs to hold his weight. The cape provides most of their cover until Tim can comb his hair back into place and fight down the flush on his cheeks enough that they can finally get back to work. 

Tim can’t look at the evidence that’s cooling on the floor between his pixie boots, but Jason’s smug, satisfied grin threatens to make him blush again. The man steps back to give him space at last, the cape closing over his large frame before Tim can manage to catch a glimpse of the costume beneath it. His imagination is still running wild at the sensation of Jason's bared thighs beneath his palms, and he aches to see it. 

When Tim finishes making sure his costume is straightened, he turns to find Jason plucking some tissues out of a box on one of the other dancer’s dressers. Wordlessly, he stoops and wipes away the mess, before dropping the crumpled wad into a nearby wastebin. Tim’s heart does more flips than Dick on a patrol when Jason meets his eyes, winking at him playfully. 

“Can’t make Yolanda clean up after us. She’ll kill us if she knows we risked getting her wardrobe stained.” 

_ What about you? _ He licks his lips, eyes flickering down to about where Jason’s belt would be, but the cape hides everything, taunting him. Tim desperately wants to ask if he can return the favour, but they’re already running late. If they don’t get to the floor soon someone is going to come looking for them. 

Jason guides him up the steps with a hand firmly on the base of his spine, letting Tim step out into the crowd of customers first. He follows shortly, greeted by a crowd of older customers near the front stage. 

“Aw, Jack! No Nightwing tonight?” The man who addresses him is balding, but his moustache is quite full, the ends twisted upwards into a handle bar. He looks as though his wardrobe hasn’t been updated since the 70’s. 

“Not tonight, no,” Jason snorts, hugging the cape tight around himself, hiding his costume; not that there’s any doubt with that cowl. Tim already misses its protective embrace. “Maybe next time.” 

“I hope so, I love tassels!” 

Tim’s head snaps around to stare at Jason, mouth open. He wouldn’t dare - would he? 

Jason smirks, a devilish glint of glee sparking behind those teal eyes when he glances down at Tim. 

_ Oh lord, he did. He really did, didn’t he? _Tim bites his lip, smothering his grin as best he can. Vaguely, he remembers Dick complaining ages ago about Kori giving away his old gear when they’d broken up during the first incarnation of the Titans. Like he had any rights after he dumped her and left all his stuff behind. Now Tim knows exactly who it was gifted to. 

He's saved from having to think about Jason in the tight curves of a Nightwing suit when Long Johnson hops onto the customer’s table, fists planted on his hips in a rather decent mimicry of Clark’s signature pose. The table cheers brightly, though Jason’s fan seems a little disappointed he’s not getting a Bat signal special. 

“Who’s ready to Superman this hoe?” Johnson demands, shaking his moneymaker in a skimpy red thong sans the blue tights. 

“Oh my,” the bowtie wearing queen next to Jason’s fan places the back of his hand to his forehead in a mock dizzy spell. “I guess I’ll take one for the Justice League!” 

Tim and Jason take the opportunity to slip away, passing a few more tables. Jack the Booty Ripper is twerking in a skintight latex version of the Flash’s costume. Yolanda’s brought out the shine spray tonight, and he looks showroom ready with the club lights gleaming off his vibrating backside as he works the song, garnering a large crowd at his table. 

“He’s popular,” Tim notes, nodding in Flash’s direction. Bart would love this, though he’s not sure what Kon would think of a Super Stripper. 

“Yeah, the real Flash is popular among the LGBT community,” Jason says absently, searching the room discreetly. If Tim were normal, he wouldn’t even notice, but they were trained by the best. “He did a lot of charity events for gay teens, supporting shelters for runaways and abused kids.” 

Tim knows that, since he organised one of the very events himself as part of the Neon Knights initiative. He nods anyway. 

“Does a lot more good for people than most of the rest of the League, I think,” Jason mutters, shaking his head. 

Ouch. 

Something catches Jason’s eye and he turns his head sharply to intercept it. Naturally, Tim’s nerves go taut in response, snapping to attention as he follows the line of his gaze. Puzzled, he spots Twinka strutting back to the bar with an empty tray. He’s dressed up like the rest of the staff but not in any superhero getup he recognises. It looks a little unfinished, but it’s still serviceable enough to wear. The motif seems to focus on the deep red coat he has buckled over a sleek black bodysuit. There is a hood pulled over his head, hiding his jewel tone hair and mask comprised of red glitter. He looks half-mystical, half-dystopian apocalypse survivor with the spiked combat boots laced up his shins. Tim racks his brain trying to pinpoint the hero to the suit, and comes up empty. 

Jason seems to recognise the outfit though, because he makes a note that's caught halfway between shock and intrigue. Then it clicks for Tim. 

The red hood should have been the giveaway, but now that he’s got the full picture, Tim can see hallmarks of Jason’s personality in the combat boots and glittering red domino. The sleek bodysuit is a new feature though, and Tim finds himself getting a bit lightheaded at the thought of all Jason’s rippling muscles in that skintight kevlar. Catwoman, eat your heart out. 

He lets a mischievous grin break over his lips, nodding innocently in the server’s direction. “Looks like Hood’s got a fan.” 

Jason makes a little whine of agreement, and summons enough sense to reply, “Yeah, I’d heard him mention he was looking at designing a suit for the Red Hood. Didn’t think he was serious about it.” 

“Seems pretty serious to me,” Tim says, grin growing ever wider. When Jason doesn’t seem to settle into the notion, eyeing Twinka with hesitant discomfort, Tim squeezes his palm around the larger man’s gloved wrist. “I think it looks good.” 

The rise of Jason’s brow is surprise and wonderment when he turns to glance down at Tim. “You think so?” 

“Yeah,” Tim confirms, nodding. “I’ve always admired the Hood. He does a lot for this city.” 

From the way Jason’s eyes warm and simultaneously melt, Tim can tell his words have had a profound impact on the man. The bat relaxes, a secretive twist on his lips before he leans over to press a quick kiss to Tim’s crown. 

He blinks up at him, reaching up to touch where his hair’s been ruffled, and whatever Jason sees on his face makes him press another kiss to his forehead just as quickly before winking. Tim wants nothing more than to stand on tiptoe,drag Jason down by those pointy ears and kiss him breathless. But he can’t, because there is a room full of people around them and Tim’s not sure enough of his grip on his own hormones to not climb Jason like the goddamn Watchtower right now. Instead he just stands there blushing and lets the taller man step back with a parting touch to his lips. 

“I’ve got a curtain call,” Jason says apologetically, and flashes him a small smile. 

“Break a leg,” Tim says. “Or a few criminals’, I guess.” 

Jason skulks off, impressively mimicking their mentor’s gait with the way he practically glides like a ghost in the cape. Tim’s not sure how Bruce does it, even Dick couldn’t manage to replicate it perfectly. Tim watches him go with a dopey, lovesick grin he can’t stifle, watching until the man disappears into the Pit curtains before he heads for the bar. 

When he reaches over to grab his tray, Charla sighs fondly. “Match made in heaven.” 

“Domi and I used to look like that,” Twinka says, and Tim feels his gut clench. It eases a bit when Twinka offers him a dry smile. “You two look good together, like a real couple.” 

Tim flushes, and glances down at his shoes. “He, uh. Jack asked me to be his boyfriend last week.” 

Charla offers a coy whistle over the bar at them, and Tim tries to school his blush as she laughs. When he glances up, Twinka’s grin is wolfish. “And? What did you say?” 

“I said yes?” Tim entreats hesitantly, and Charla screeches loud enough to draw the attention of some lingering patrons. 

“Good for you, honey,” she croons, leaning over the counter to pinch his cheek. Then she arches a knowing brow at him. “You better nail that one down though, if you catch my drift.” 

“Dios bueno,” Twinka says breathlessly, shaking his head as he starts drying a new glass. Then he pauses with a contemplative frown. “Wait, did you two start dating before or after you gloryholed him?” 

“_Abel,_” Charla hisses, but she’s grinning, her gaze alight with glee. 

Tim’s certain he’s blushing up a storm, so he buries his answer in a mumble when he says, “Day of?” 

Twinka bursts into laughter, Charla’s cackling not far behind. “Dios bueno is right, sweetcheeks,” she chortles. “Damn, but you move fast, don’t you, honey?” 

Tim’s certain he’s going into meltdown, he’s so embarrassed. He still can’t help but grin at their contagious mirth. “It wasn’t like that! I just- One thing led to another and-” 

Charla squeezes his bare shoulder. “You don’t have to explain yourself, darlin’, we get it. Jack’s one hefty piece of ass. You can’t be blamed for wanting to tap that as fast as humanely possible. Lord knows we would, given half the chance.” 

Tim groans and buries his head in his hands when Twinka snorts. “I don’t know,” he teases. “Broad and beefy was never really my type.” 

“Oh no, soulful and sensitive was yours, wasn’t it?” Charla retorts, and seems to realise what she’s said the instant the smirk slips of Twinka’s face. Her brow pinches, her tone schooling to a more soothing, low note. “Oh, honey, I didn’t mean-” 

“No, it’s okay,” Twinka brushes off, but Tim can tell he’s doing his best not to show how deeply it affects him. He exhales roughly, reaching for another glass to clean. He shrugs, the motion tight and stiff as his tone lifts to detached indifference. “He’s dead now, so. Guess I gotta move on, right? Start looking for someone new?” 

It feels like a punch to the gut. From the look on Charla’s face, Tim’s pretty certain she feels the same. The drag queen leans an elbow up on the bar, reaching across to swipe a thumb through a tear track on Twinka’s cheek. He jolts at the touch, shrinking back with a frown to wipe it away with his palm. 

“It’s fine, I’m fine, I just-” 

“We didn’t mean to make you upset, sweetheart,” Charla soothes gently, sincerely. Tim can hear the ache in her heart from here. “Domi was someone special. You don’t just replace someone like him, we know that. And you don’t have to find someone new. You’re allowed to mourn, you know. You’re allowed that.” 

Twinka glances up, eyes brimming fiercely as he sniffles and swallows harshly, like he’s trying to shove them back. His jaw flexes, but he nods at her words. 

Charla gives him a sad little smile, and Tim wishes he could do something, offer the man some comfort. “But you should do something for yourself too. Give you a project, something to put some energy into. Something to take your mind off it, yeah?” 

Tim glances between the pair of them, hesitating on Twinka where he’s glaring into the glass he’s cleaning. “We should do a routine.” 

“Hmm?” he prompts, looking up in surprise as he sets the schooner up on the wood. “Say again?” 

“We should do a routine, you and me,” Tim repeats, holding his gaze as Twinka crooks a brow. 

He barks a short, disjointed laugh. “What do you mean, a _ routine? _ I don’t think Yolanda would let that happen. I’ve worked here for four years, and you’re the first server to set foot on her stages.” 

“I think I could convince her,” Tim muses, waggling his brows at Charla, who snorts and averts her gaze when Twinka spins to eye her suspiciously. But he’s paying attention, getting his mind off darker places, and that has to count for something. “Charla would be happy to put in a good word for her two favourite employees, wouldn’t you, Charla?” 

Charla gives him a daring flutter of lashes, grinning broadly. “‘Course, babydoll. Anything to get that short twink on a pole.” 

“Te arrepentirás de deci-” Twinka says darkly, fixing Charla with a glare as she bursts into raucous laughter. The last of his threat is drowned out by her chortling as she saunters around the bar, plucking the half-dried glass from his fingers. 

“You could use a project,” she points out on a purr, nudging him with her hip even as she winds fingers under his chin. It’s the first time Tim’s seen someone touch Twinka like that and not walk away with a charley horse, and it catches him off-guard for a moment how close the two seem to be. 

“I don’t _ need _ a project,” Twinka whines, rolling his eyes. 

Charla affects a pout, some of her meddling showing through. “You’re always telling me about how you used to dance with your sisters every Saturday morning to MTV. Time to put those slick moves to good use, pollito.” 

“I don’t dance.” 

“Who says we have to dance?” Tim interjects, and Twinka glares at the pair of them, looking outnumbered. “We can just have some fun. We could take the Twink Tuesday slot. There’s no performances on stage that night; all the dancers work the floor after the parade.” 

“Yolanda might go for that,” Charla muses with intrigue. “She’s been antsy about bringing in customers on Tuesdays. It’s a pretty slow night.” 

Twinka still looks sourly unconvinced, but Tim can feel he’s teetering on the edge of agreement. “You’re going to have to give one hell of a pitch to win Yolanda over to that idea.” 

“If I do,” Tim bargains, feeling unnaturally lucky, “will you design the costumes?” 

Twinka hesitates for a moment, and Tim knows an in when he sees one. “I’ve never danced in front of anyone before,” Twinka rushes out when he catches Tim’s bright expression. “I barely even danced in front of _ Domi. _ I don’t know if I can get up on a _ stage _ in front of all those _ people_-” 

“You’re in front of jackasses every night,” Charla points out, poking fondly at his cheek to make the man scowl, “and you still manage to keep that smile on your lips. This is barely a performance compared to that display of willpower.” 

“And I’ll be up there with you,” Tim promises, and lets his tone slip into something softer, more earnest. “I’ve got your back, promise.” 

Twinka looks at him, long and discerning. Tim does his level best not to shy from that probing gaze, holding it earnestly until Twinka pouts. “If,” he starts, and is drowned out by Charla’s ecstatic shriek. He shoots her a chastising look, and tries again, “_If _ I agree to this, I’m doing the costumes. And _ you,_” he adds, fixing Tim with a stern look. “I’m expecting to see that Subday brat again. Give me a personality to work with.” 

Tim grins. “I think I can manage that.” 

“Good,” Twinka says imperiously, and snatches another wet glass from the counter. He’s not quite fast enough to hide the twitch of a smile from his lips from the pair of them. “I’ll see what I can do.” 

“I’m sure you will, pollito,” Charla teases, winking at Tim. Then she pauses, eyeing him up and down. “Don’t know if you’ll be able to top Yolanda’s best work though.” 

Twinka scoffs, flicking Tim a glance. “_Please. _I’ve grown up with these vigilantes for years. I’m pretty sure Robin had a cape. So much for authenticity.” 

Tim reaches behind himself instantly, stomach plummeting when he swipes through thin air. Yolanda had fitted him out with a half-cape that hadn’t completely covered his bedazzled panties, and it’s only now that his heart rate has returned to normal that he realises he’s bare. He must have lost it sometime during his and Jason’s fumbling. 

He curses, brow pinching as he casts Charla and Twinka an apologetic glance. “I’ll be right back, I lost my cape.” 

“Hurry up, the Bat's on soon,” Twinka chastises as Tim bolts for the curtains of the Pit, taking the stairs two at a time. He must have lost it somewhere in wardrobe, he’s certain. 

Tim beelines down the corridor, quietly relieved when he doesn’t spot Jason in the dancers’ dress room. Not that he’d be able to notice the caped crusader sneaking up on him if he tried; in the silent cowl, Jason’s a spectre. Tim hopes he’s backstage, preparing for his big entrance, and ducks into wardrobe. 

Nothing bright and yellow leaps out at him from the racks as Tim makes a hasty trek down the aisles. He turns in his pixie boots the end of the row, biting back a groan of futility as he starts down the next. It has to be here _ somewhere. _ Yolanda will kill him if he loses her outfit before the night’s even kicked into gear. 

Maybe someone’s moved it into the dressing rooms for safekeeping. Tim pulls back the half-closed curtain, ducking into the first room, and nearly runs up against its occupant. 

“Got_dang_,” Tommy yelps, bailing up into the corner as Tim stumbles to a sharp halt. 

“Oh God, I’m sorry-” 

“Bless it, you gave me the fright of a lifetime,” Tommy gasps around a huff. He reaches a hand up to comb his hair up out of his eyes where it’s come lose of his headband, and Tim becomes aware that his shirt is rucked up nearly to his collarbone. He can’t help but drag his gaze down the smooth slope of Tommy’s stomach, to where his hand hovers at his hip. That’s when he notices the needle, clenched in Tommy’s fist. 

Tommy pales when he notices Tim’s stare, even though he’s quick to avert it, backtracking for the door. 

“I didn’t-” 

“No, no, it’s not-” Tommy starts in a panic, as Tim gets tangled in the curtains. He reaches out, seizing onto Tim’s forearm with a pressure that’s bruising, and it takes fighting against every fibre of Tim’s being not to retaliate on instinct. The man’s just lucky he doesn’t walk away with a dented windpipe with the way Tim’s hand twitches to counteract his grip. 

Tommy jerks him to a halt, and Tim’s gaze flashes from his captive wrist up to the dread in the man’s blue eyes. “I didn’t see anything,” Tim insists quickly, mouth running dry. 

He grunts when Tommy pins him back against the cubicle wall, frantic and shaking as Tim glances down at that bare needle and back up again. Tommy looks lost for words, but there’s a sincerity in his gaze, a need for Tim to understand. 

“It’s not what you think,” he babbles, and Tim desperately tries to extricate himself from the situation. 

“It’s fine, you’re fine, I didn’t-” Tim tries again, and the words die in his throat when tears bubble up in Tommy’s baby blues. 

“I’m not shooting up, I swear to God,” he insists, and takes a half step back to lift the uncapped needle to Tim’s view. He can’t help but flinch back from the threat, the back of his head knocking against the plaster. “Please believe me; I’m diabetic, I _ swear._” 

Tim blinks at the blonde, at the needle, and down at his bare stomach. “You’re a-” 

“You can’t tell Management,” Tommy pleads, swallowing hard as he implores Tim with his gaze alone. “Please, Teddy, I’m begging you. They can’t know. It’s not in my file. I couldn’t tell them or they’d _ fire _ me, and I need this job, I _ really _ do-” 

“Tommy,” Tim tries to soothe, but the man is shaking apart, desperation and heart-wrenching fright twisting his angelic features into a wet-eyed grimace. 

“_Please, _ I’ll do anything. I just came back here for a top up. My blood sugar has been all over the place lately, and I needed insulin. I _ swear to you, _ it’s not drugs, I _ promise-_” 

“I believe you!” Tim yelps, and Tommy freezes with a blink. Tim wraps a hand around the stunned man’s elbow where he’s crowding him against the dressing room wall, trying to pacify him with the touch alone. “Tommy, it’s okay, I believe you. I won't say anything.” 

The blonde sags, the tension bleeding out of his shoulders as he exhales a shuddering breath. Tim steadies him against the far wall, easing him down until the man’s shaking knees are no longer bearing his weight. 

“Thank you, Teddy, thank you so much,” he whispers. “You have no idea how much this job means to me, I-” 

Tim’s stomach twists up into a knot at the raw gratitude in his tone. “Tommy, it’s okay, you don’t have to thank me.” 

Tommy shakes his head, blonde locks sashaying around his crown. “It means a lot, it really does. I’m so sorry you had to see this. I’ve been so careful, I haven’t told _ anyone. _Not even Yolanda. I thought-” 

Those tears are rising again, spilling over his flushed cheeks, and Tim swallows in an echo of sympathy, patting the man’s arm awkwardly. Tommy drags in a shuddering breath, palm swiping up to smear the wet from his eyes. 

“I was doing so _ well. _I had everything timed so I wouldn’t need to top up until I got home, but I just… I guess I overworked myself. And I had emergency insulin in my bag, and I-” 

“It’s okay,” Tim repeats softly as the man sniffles. “I’m not going to tell anyone, I promise. I wouldn’t do that to you, Tommy.” 

Tommy gives him a watery smile. “Thank you, Teddy, that means… It means so much. I _ really _ love this job. I don’t know what I’d do if Management found out.” 

“Why didn’t you put it in your file?” Tim asks. 

The blonde winces, and glances down at his feet. “I didn’t have to, with old management. Then the new guys took over the place, brought in their own production crew. Wanted everyone to get a physical done and update their employment files. I overheard some of the new stagehands talking about a clean bill of health policy, about how they’re not keeping on anyone with the slightest medical defect. And I… I _ need _ this job. I’ve never had anywhere take me in so unconditionally before. This place is like _ home _ to me.” 

Tommy shifts, swallowing hard, and Tim gives him the space before he gathers himself to continue. He can feel the guilt wafting off his skin, permeating the small room. 

“So I lied. No one knows about my condition, and I’ve been really careful to keep it quiet. Until now.” 

Tommy’s gaze lifts to meet his, dejected and resigned, and Tim’s heart beats a heavy bruise against his sternum. 

“I swear, I didn’t think anyone was down here,” he whimpers, and fights back a fresh wave of tears. “I thought I was alone.” 

“I’m not going to tell anyone,” Tim assures him firmly, holding Tommy’s gaze until he nods and wipes his cheeks dry. “I promise. You’re safe with me.” 

Tommy hiccups softly, a smile twitching on his lips. “My own Robin to protect me. I must be special.” 

Shock sizzles through Tim’s core before he remembers where he is, what he’s wearing. He glances down at the red tunic, remembering why he came down in the first place. “Actually, you might be able to help me?” 

“Hmm?” 

“I lost my cape. That’s why I’m down here - to find it.” 

Tommy perks at that. “Oh, I- I think I might have seen it. Hang on, let me just-” He flushes, looking a little sheepish as he averts his gaze to Tim’s pixie boots. “I, um, can I just finish up? And then I’ll be right with you.” 

“Oh!” Tim shuffles backwards for the curtain, nodding profusely. “Yeah, I’ll be outside. I’ll keep watch, okay?” 

Tommy’s smile is so relieved that it makes the air in Tim’s lungs feel twice as heavy. “Thanks, Teddy. You’re a real guardian angel, you know that?” 

He waves off the praise, feeling self-conscious as he ducks out of the dressing room. He busies himself with fluffing out his curls as he waits for Tommy to finish, and the man emerges from the dressing room in no time at all. His cheeks are still flushed, but there’s a smile plastered on his face that looks halfway to genuine when he meets Tim’s gaze. 

“Alright, let’s get you your cape back, Robin. Can’t keep you away from your dark knight for too long.” 

Tim lets a warm grin curl his lips, trailing after the taller man as he strides across the wardrobe floor in his ridiculous red heels. He’s still mesmerised by how Tommy manages to walk in those things, let alone look as graceful as Wonder Woman herself on their towering stilettos. Already he looks brighter, more energetic, as he weaves through the rows and plucks an unzipped jacket off the rack, twirling it on his finger for Tim to see. 

“Tada!” he says triumphantly. “Found it in the dressing room when I came down, so I put it back with Yolanda’s things.” 

“You’re a lifesaver,” Tim breathes, shrugging the glittery material over his shoulders and buckling the clasp closed. “Seriously, Tommy, thank you.” 

Tommy’s beaming smile softens to genuine gratitude, and Tim can’t help but return it. 

* * *

Tim’s barely able to get back to the floor in time with his cape when it’s showtime, and he scurries to his bar station to grab up his tray and order pad. The music is winding down, La Roux’s ‘Bulletproof’ fading from the sound system as Long Johnson dismounts and heads off stage to a chorus of cheers. When the next song doesn’t immediately start, customers conversations buzz into a comfortable lull for an intermission. 

“Alright honeys, I know you’re all _ super _ excited tonight for our main attraction!” Charla gets onto the bar, towering in her platform wedges, gripping the rhinestone microphone that they use to announce the acts each night, hushing the club with her snapping fingers. “You all know Gotham’s tall, dark, broody knight, right?” She winks at the crowd as they crane their heads around to look at her. The lights begin to dim. “Well, tonight is the night we get to see what he’s packing under that cape! Superman may be able to leap tall buildings in a single bound, but I guarantee he won’t be able to climb your little ‘poles’ like our Batman can.” 

Laughter twinkles over the crowd, some wolf whistles piping through from the back of the room. The lights begin to go dim, until the entire club is pitch black. The laughter dies down, hushed whispers of confusion replacing the din. Tim goes still, pausing mid-stride to the bar, unsure if this is part of the act or if something has gone horribly wrong. 

“_You want to get nuts?_” 

The low rumble vibrates through the sound system, as a guitar begins to scream distantly, a staccato drumbeat cracking through the speakers. 

“_C’mon, let’s get nuts,‘cause I just wrote a song about how I’m gonna kick all your butts._” 

A flash of golden light flares at the center of the stage, highlighting the tall, imposing figure that has appeared. It straightens to full height as the guitar solo reaches its peak, and Jason throws open the cape with a brutal flap. The crowd screams, rocking Tim in his very own pixie boots. He nearly drops his tray along with his own jaw. 

Jason’s cowl might be the real deal, but the rest of the costume is very much Yolanda’s workmanship. Tim’s gaze trails from the toes of Jason’s black stiletto boots, all the way up to just above his knees. His thighs are bare, all the way up, muscles cast in high relief in the lighting. The rest of the costume is one piece, a high-cut leotard, with a sequined yellow utility belt cinched tight around his narrow waist. While Tim could probably wax poetic about Jason’s thighs for months on end, he swallows sharply at the peek of his adonis belt from the high cut of the costume. 

Small flares flash at the Batman’s feet, sending out purple and blue smoke over the stage floor, while yellow lights flicker in time with the music. Tim doesn’t recognize the song at all, but he recognizes the voice. 

Jason is singing. 

The microphone is in the cowl, the end barely peeking out by his mouth. He sneers out into the crowd, and Tim had thought he’d seen Jason work the pole before. No, he’d seen the persona of Jack climbing up and down poles before. That’s not what he sees now as the man leaps up like a grapnel shot, spinning round the pole with confident ease. The cape flares behind him like a pair of dark wings, the kevlar weave slowing his spin just like it was designed to help the wearer glide down from buildings. Jason twists round to face the audience before he dismounts, cartwheeling down the short runway that juts the stage out in the crowd. 

_ This _ is entirely Jason, the Robin who was just as brutal and grim as his own mentor. He doesn’t have Dick’s grace, Tim’s calculative stratagem, or Damian’s natural-bred talent. Instead he moves with the muscle memory of a thousand teachers pounded into his very bones, not a single movement wasted or dull. Like a damn machine that keeps rolling with the punches and flipping like Two Face’s coin. 

“_In the darkest night, I make the bad guys fall. There’s a million heroes,_” Jason croons, and jabs into his own chest with this thumb when he reaches the end of the runway, the last pair of flips a double whammy. It takes Tim a moment to realise there’s no Bat emblem there, just a cut out that bares Jason's buxom chest. “_But I’m the best of them all, yeah!_” 

Tim would try to focus on the dance if he could, but he’s too distracted, eyes roaming from the glint of yellow piercings in the midst of that familiar cut out, only to glue to the very thighs he’d held onto as Jason took him apart with tender loving care. 

“Sing it!” Jason commands, and spreads the cape wide in encouragement. “_Who has the coolest gadgets?_” 

“_Batman!_” the crowd screams in response. 

“_Who has the tricked out ride?_” Jason croons, emboldened by the energy of his captivated audience. 

They’re lapping up every note, ecstatic as he grinds against the pole stationed at the stage end. “_Batman!_” 

He transitions into the chorus, and Tim has the horrified thought that he’s going to have to be careful he doesn’t start humming this when he’s back home in the cave. 

“Teddy.” 

Jason’s thighs strain against his boots, muscles flexing as he grips the pole tight with his legs and gives a few slow thrusts, grinning out at the crowd. 

“Teddy!” 

He spins, blinking as he refocuses on Charla, suddenly aware that he’s been neglecting his tray, which is now piled high with shot glasses. 

“There he is,” she teases with the flash of a smile, and nods towards the front of the stage. “Go serve table five.” 

Tim glances over at the table in question, nestled at the very front of the stage, where purple-tinted smoke is billowing into the crowd. He turns back to Charla and says dumbly, “That table’s not in my section.” 

“Don't care,” Charla quips, and pushes his tray across the counter. “Shots for table five. Lickity split, hun.” 

He doesn’t argue any further, just scoops up his tray and bustles through the aisles to the group of cheering bachelorettes and one tipsy bride-to-be. They are already sloppy drunk, lipstick smeared and having a great time waving dick-shaped glowsticks. Tim’s not entirely sure if they brought them with them or it’s leftover party favors from Johnson’s birthday bash. 

“_You think my muscles are big? _Thanks,” Jason smirks, winking down at Tim when he arrives at the table of drunken ladies. He can feel himself flush, and he hopes the stage lights dull most of the colour in his cheeks. “_You haven't seen my brain, huh?_” 

Tim forces himself to turn back to the table, to dole out their tray of shots with a broad smile, and does his best to ignore Jason's lyrics behind him. Even if all he wants is to stare and permanently tattoo this memory into his brain. He pats himself on the back for not spilling a single drink even though his hands are shaking. 

“_Ladies, it’s okay if you stare… ‘Cause I’m a billionaire!_” 

The ladies slam back the shots without a single wince, and look at him expectantly for more. He only marginally succeeds in not blinking owlishly at them in awe, before realizing one of them is trying to talk to him. Leaning over so she can repeat her slurred question, he crooks an ear towards her as she asks about the daily specials. His attention isn’t completely focused on her order, his eyes faithfully glued to the way Jason sprawls upside down on the pole and rips an enthusiastic air guitar solo. 

“...try the Black Manhattan?” the lady says, and Tim only just catches the question in time to turn and fumble an answer. 

“Absolutely,” he concurs, and glances amongst her friends, whose eyes are all fixed up on the stage. “Can I get you anything else?” 

“Does it really come with a lemon wedge in the shape of a bat?” the lady asks excitedly, but before Tim can lean close enough to explain that _ no, it’s a bat cut out _ on _ a lemon wedge, like the Bat signal- _

“_Who does the sickest backflips?_” 

The _ crack _ when Jason’s heels hit the table is like a gunshot, or the crunch of a broken jaw. It shuts up the ladies instantly, their mouths snapping closed. A dark shadow rises off the table, and Tim stumbles trying to get out of the way, but he’s at an awkward angle trying to take their orders. It’s only thanks to the customer jerking herself aside that he doesn’t fall into her, instead landing in a heap on the leather bench. The ladies squeal as Jason’s teeth flash like a spotlight into a menacing grin. 

They scream when Jason climbs onto Tim’s lap, boxing him in place with both gauntlets gripping the back of the booth on either side of his head. The breath leaves Tim’s lungs, unprepared and woefully underequipped (_his cup,_ he needs his damn protective cup, or else he’s going to have to pay to get this damn costume clean) as he stares up at the looming spectre, jaw slack. 

He’s seen Jason work a table before, but it’s different up close like this. For one thing he’s completely outweighed and couldn’t even thrust up against him if he tried. For another, Jason doesn’t seem interested in even lifting off him even as inch, grinding without mercy. 

And God, that voice. It’s rough and powerful and all Tim wants is to hear is Jason say his name. Scream it, just like Tim does when he’s chasing his own hand in his shitty motel room. 

“_I get the last laugh, I get the final grin._” Jason presses a hand between them, and rucks Tim’s shirt up over his belly and chest, his gloves practically burning his tender skin in their haste. “_Throw you into the asylum with Harley Quinn. Turn Two-Face, to black-and-blue face-_” 

Jason surges, arching his head back as far as the cowl allows him and lets loose a screaming roar. 

“_I 100% am not LEX LUTHOR!_” 

Tim’s hands move of their own volition as they latch onto Jason’s broad chest. The swell of his pecs are straining against the tight outfit, all that warm flesh exposed by the cut out just for him. Mesmerized, Tim digs his fingers into the plush skin and he doesn’t miss the hitch in Jason’s throat as he belts out the next lyrics. 

“_Who is the manliest man?_” The piercings are yellow and plain but so tantalizing that Tim can’t stop himself from flicking his thumbs over them experimentally. The result is instantaneous, Jason’s body trembles as his core muscles go taut in mid-grind. Tim wants to run his tongue over him, bite and kiss him there until he’s shaking apart. He catches himself halfway, hands clutching Jason’s sides like a lifeline above that bedazzled belt. 

Jason, the absolute saint that he is, wraps one hand around the back of his nape and pushes Tim face first into his chest. 

“_BATMAN!_” The crowd is stomping in time with the music now, like a thunderstorm rolling over the bay. He’s nearly certain they’d be getting a noise complaint if this were any city other than Gotham. 

Tim’s unabashedly glad for the deafening noise levels, because he’s sure he’s moaning. He mindlessly plants his feet and frantically strains to grip the curve of Jason’s backside like he’s wanted to since he saw Jason’s first lapdance. He presses a sloppy kiss into the center of his chest, feeling the beat of his strong, miraculously revived heart. 

“_With the buns of steel?_” Tim staunchly agrees as Jason rolls lewdly above him. Those same buns are driving him up the wall, to the point that he gives in to his base urges and wraps his teeth around one of the barbells, tugging it. Jason clutches the back of his head, clenching his fingers tightly into the carefully coiffed curls as he fights down a choked grunt. 

“_BATMAN!_” 

“_Who could choke hold a bear? Who never skips leg-day?_” 

“_BATMAN!_” 

“_Who always pays their taxes?_” 

“NOT _BATMAN!_” 

Tim’s a nanosecond away from heaven when Jason’s hips suddenly lift and leave him straining against nothing but air. In a feat that would impress Catwoman, Jason does a slow cartwheel backwards onto the table and then a faster, springier one back onto the stage. Tim gapes, like a fish out of water, his outstretched hands clenching and unclenching at their loss of Jason’s warm, solid body to cling to. Jason shimmies, twirling as he sings out the chorus amongst the audience. His cape flares out, whipping up over his back before he drops into a smooth split, displaying a bat signal cut out just over the swell of his ass before the cape drops over him again. 

“_Batman! Batman, Batman, Batman, I'm Batman. Hey, hey, Batman, yeah!_” 

Jason rises up from the floor as the stage lights flicker in a seizure-inducing array of colors, holding the cape up over his mouth like Bruce does when he’s trying to muffle his breathing or protect against questionable fumes. But even on the man himself it looks theatrical and dramatic rather than practical. 

Just before the lights cut, Jason flares out the cape again, belting out the last lyric with the biggest shit eating grin he can muster on his gorgeous lips. 

“_Nananananana, nananananana, yeah!_” 

The club goes pitch black, but onstage, the bat shaped window of Jason’s costume is lined in glow in the dark paint, blazing out into the crowd. That’s not what makes Tim whimper. It’s the two luminescent pinpoints of yellow, marking each of Jason’s nipples. His barbells are glow-in-the dark to match, and he can taste the salt of Jason’s sweat on his tongue. 

Tim’s unable to form words to even begin expressing how much he liked Jason’s performance, but the throb of his dick inside his scaley panties sums it up nicely. 

He just hopes he can make it to the bathroom before the lights come back on. 

* * *

Jason is still dreaming about the night before even though he’s been awake for hours. He can’t stop grinning like an idiot, humming as he cleans his gear and restocks his tactical jacket. Teddy had stolen his breath all night, so turnabout had been fair play. The second he’d seen the younger man in his former colors he’d gone ravenous, almost forgetting himself. 

Jason Todd gave as good as he got, both in the field and in bed. 

It wasn’t really so much about keeping score, not for him, it was more about the fact that he enjoyed taking care of Teddy. The man was like an open book with the way he melted beneath Jason’s palms, reverent and awed. Jason could starve for a thousand years and never grow hungry with how often Teddy looked at him like that. He hasn’t been looked at with such raw wonder - and dare he think, _ love _ \- in a long time. Every sound out of Teddy’s lips is an affirmation, a promise of something more, and Jason’s addicted. 

He’s reminiscing on the sound of the man’s voice, the soft pitched whines and the low unabashed groans as he’d squirmed beneath Jason’s hand, when his phone buzzes. 

Jason stares at the notification for a long time after he receives it, stunned by the sender ID. Finally he decides to bite the bullet and taps open the messenger. 

** _Cave, 19:00. _ **

It’s the first message Bruce has sent him since their last blow out, and it’s a summons to the cave. No inquiring after his health or well-being, and certainly no apologies. Not that Jason had expected anything of the sort after being nearly pummeled into a coma by the caped crusader. Whatever Bruce wants, it can’t be good. Already his thoughts turn inward, mulling through possibilities and running the scenarios. 

Jason cuts the speculation off when he finds himself gripping his own thigh hard enough to bruise, and throws his phone back onto his pillow. His entire mood is shattered; all he’d thought of when the notification bell went off was that it was Teddy. A daydream of possibly a romantic dinner before work, perhaps. Or a sequel to the fun of last night, Teddy arching into his hand, trembling in the fantasy of being his Robin. God he’d felt so good, and Jason can still hear Teddy’s euphoric cry as he gave it up all over his gloved fist. 

Instead? It’s Bruce, demanding he drop everything and run to him when called like a neglected yard dog. All without so much as a please. Short, curt and brusque. _ Clinical _ in a way that makes Jason’s skin itch. So much for family. 

He heads into the bathroom to shower, throwing his sweats and tank top into the hamper on the way. He has to work at the club tonight, but if he doesn’t go to this meeting he’ll be hunted down. There is absolutely no way he’s risking his cover being blown just because Bruce has a stick up his ass. 

Once he’s scrubbed fresh as a peach and towel drying his hair, feeling marginally more put-together, Jason shoots a text to Yolanda to let her know he’ll be late coming in. Her reply is nearly instantaneous, giving him the entire night off. 

“Shit, Landa.” He shakes the damp curls out of his eyes, beginning to tap out a message insisting he’ll be in. He can’t afford to compromise his cover after the debacle with the cops. He doesn’t want to give management a single reason to punish him. 

_ I will fire you if you tell me you’re coming in anyway, _ greets him before he can hit send. 

He raises a brow because she would do it. It’s probably for the best; he’s not so sure what shape he’ll be in after this meeting is over anyway. He rubs his neck absently, scowling at the sensation of scar tissue there. 

“You headin’ out?” Roy asks curiously, poking his head out of the kitchen when Jason finishes dressing. He’s chewing something that Jason can only begin to imagine is comprised of. The kitchen needs restocking, and there wasn’t anything left that would concoct an edible meal. A genius in the tech department does not a chef make and all that. 

“Yeah.” His fingers catch in the damp tangles of his curls. “Something like that. I’ll be back later.” 

Roy makes a noise of acknowledgement before disappearing back into the kitchen, and Jason doesn’t tell him his destination. He knows he won’t be able to leave without an argument and he refuses to drag Roy into another fight with Bruce. 

“See ya later, gator!” Roy laughs, and Jay tries not to think that it might be the last time he sees him. 

* * *

Despite being summoned, Jason is incredulous to find that his access code has been revoked and he has to hail the Cave to gain entrance. He shifts his weight over his motorcycle, the machine humming patiently between his thighs, churning his already tumultuous stomach as the comm rings through. 

It’s Damian who answers the call, and Jason thanks his negligent guardian angel for small miracles. His tone is laced with a confusion that tells Jason this was as unplanned for the teen as it was for him. “What are you doing here?” 

“I was invited, brat,” Jason snaps, his unease sharpening his tongue more than the new Robin has probably earnt. He doesn’t have the capacity to bring his tone more in line when he’s this wound up. “But if B doesn’t want to let me in, fine. I’ll just go back home and he can fucking bite me.” 

The door opens after a brief pause, radio silence his only response. Jason settles his weight down on the bike, revving it down the dark tunnel’s single lane. _ Fucking prick, _ he thinks bitterly. It would be just like Bruce to lock him out even after demanding his attendance. He can’t be upset with Damian; the kid is just doing what he can to stay in the man’s good graces, all too aware of what would happen should he step out of the line Bruce draws in the sand. Jason's already a pretty poignant example of that. 

The Cave is the same as it ever was, save a few minor alterations. He parks near the tunnel entrance in case he needs to make a swift exit, knocking down the kickstand as he alights. Jason takes the small reprieve fretting with his helmet gives him to steel his nerves before he heads up the stairs to the Cave proper to face the music. 

Bruce is seated at the computer, running diagnostics on samples that look suspiciously like something Crane would be dabbling in, but Jason doesn’t like the way the formula is turning out. From the figures the computer is pumping out, it’s much more potent than anything he’s used before. He frowns, coming to a stop several feet away from the console, staring at the screen. If something like this got out over the city, it would be disastrous on epic levels. 

Damian isn’t the only one in the Cave he realizes, as the teen materialises from somewhere to his right, buckling his gauntlets as he moves to stand near the railing of the deck. He’s bare of the domino, but otherwise ready to hit the town; Jason must have caught them before patrol. He shoves down the shadow of an ache that red tunic inspires in him, and clears his throat. 

Dick is right behind the youngest Robin, tumbling from the Dinosaur’s nose to land weightlessly next to the console. Unperturbed by Jason’s prompt or the interruption, Bruce works on even when Dick sits on top of the desk near his chair, that perfect ass practically on top of the keyboard as he surveys the strands of data filtering across the screen. Jason tries not to think about how a lifetime ago, that had been his own spot. 

This time, Jason makes his cough positively obnoxious, regretting it when it catches Dick’s attention. The older man’s features melt into a warm smile that feels out of place beside Bruce’s stern scowl. 

“Hey Little Wing!” Dick says brightly, leaning back on his hands as if he hasn’t a care in the world. As if he’s totally oblivious to the disapproving vibes radiating from Bruce; or in spite of them, probably. “Good to see you.” 

Jason doubts it but still nods, discomfort coiling like a viper inside his belly.

Stephanie is near the training mats cooling down from her work out, looking surprised to see him. He isn't exactly welcome company to family picnics anymore and he can’t remember the last time he came to the Cave, much less the Manor proper. And Steph has a resilience to family drama that’s unparalleled; if _ she’s _ uncomfortable by whatever law Bruce is laying down, Jason has every right to be worried. 

Jason’s stomach twists into several more queasy knots, and the niggling concern that he'd been shoving down - that Bruce somehow knows above the club, knows about the case, knows that Jason has been operating on the Bat's turf - rises swiftly without his concentrated denial to keep it bound. 

He has the sudden, horrified thought that maybe Steph ratted him out. That Bruce pressured her like he pressures everyone, to give up Jason's cover. Wonders if his months of work are about to come crashing down beneath the glare of that cowl. 

The guilt that follows is immediate, and Jason instantly regrets doubting Steph. She's had his back time and time before; of anyone, she knows how disappointing the man under the cowl can be when the Bat comes off. She deserves better than his suspicion. 

He's no better than Bruce if he jumps to blame her at a hair trigger. And if she has kept her word and kept Jason's operation in her territory a secret, he's only dragging her into shit she doesn't deserve to be subjected to if he throws her under the bus. 

He forces himself to look away from her, refusing to let her get involved in the eventual throw down. If she gets tangled up in it she could lose her mantle, her territory, and with it the Daily O. Which would go down in flames without her protection. Batgirl’s presence in that part of town was a beacon, moreso than the brief stint Jason's working at the club. It gave people hope. He can’t risk losing that for the people of Gotham who rely on her protection over his own fuck up. 

Jason squares up, setting his shoulders and crossing his arms to impress his bulk upon the stoic man at the desk. He's prepared to wait him out, he’s got all night. If Bruce wants to start shit tonight, he's going to have to bring the fight to him. Jason's got too much of a bad reputation for letting his temper get the worst of him; he's not staining his name any further for Bruce's sake. 

He's so preoccupied with the imposing figure of the Bat that he nearly misses their fifth member hiding in the shadows. 

Jason catches sight of his deposed replacement slinking around the workbench in full cape and cowl like he expects a dog fight any moment. Jason's not sure if it's on his behalf or Bruce's. It's a fair assumption after the hell he’d put the younger man through, he supposed, that he would expect violence when Jason's this on edge. 

He forces back the tide of reflexive guilt again, focusing on the younger man to take his mind of overanalysing Bruce. 

Tim's tinkering with some sort of gadget that would make Roy drool. It's advanced, probably ten years ahead of its time; his replacement has access to all the newest toys and technology. Not like Jason, clunking around in outdated duds and lugging repurposed tech that Roy hobbled together for him. It's easier to let the bitterness wash over his tongue than the guilt, and Jason ruminates in it for a moment before he turns back to the Bat. 

“If you’re that busy I can come back never, old man," Jason snips, glowering when Bruce holds up a hand, gesturing him to be silent. It flips a switch in him, disappointment and rage swamping the discomfort in his gut. “Fuck this," he snarls, whirling around to leave. 

“Stay put,” Bruce growls, not even pausing as he types commands into the console. The screen flickers, closing the case file and analysis tests, bringing up the familiar main system screen once more. 

Jason fumes as the Bat turns the chair, fixing him with the same look he gives criminals that he’s cornered in back alleys. It rankles him further, but he forces himself to swallow it down. He waits for the other man’s move, and Jason refuses to blink in this game Bruce thinks he’s playing. Folding his arms over his chest, he cocks his hip, displaying just how fucking little he cares what the man wants.

“I expect an explanation. Now,” Bruce says at last, when his silence begins to make even Dick uncomfortable where he shifts from his spot at the console. That stirs embers of fear in Blondie’s baby blues, and Jason quickly cuts her off before she can speak. 

He barks a laugh, drawing Bruce’s ire. “Kinda hard to explain when you won’t tell anyone what is wrong in the first place, old man.” 

“What’s wrong is _ you _.” Bruce stands, his cape sliding over his shoulders soundlessly to swallow his large frame within a sea of darkness. It’s a theatrical way to hide his hands and distract less experienced opponents. Jason knows there’s probably a smoke pellet or batarang in his grasp already. It takes all his will power not to take a step back, instinctively wanting as much space between them as possible.

Jason smothers his discomfort with sarcasm. “Opinions are like assholes, everyone’s got one.” 

“Jason, what did you do?” Dick frowns, slowly coming off the console in a controlled glide. Like he’s preparing to stop a pair of dogs fighting. In a way, he’s not far off the mark. 

“Nothing.” Jason shrugs. “I’m just as lost as you are.”

Bruce’s eyes narrow dangerously, and Jason feels his heart leap into his throat when the man moves. He reaches for the console keyboard instead of attacking, dragging up the folder of numerous criminal and suspect profiles that have been compiled over the years. Jason watches as Bruce types Todd, J. Offended, Jason opens his mouth to complain and promptly closes it, perplexed.

_ File Not Found. _

Bruce’s anger radiates like a furnace, but Jason’s eyes are glued to the screen, speechless. He doesn’t quite understand what the deal is.

“Uh, what?” he asks dumbly.

“Your criminal and medical files aren’t missing,” Bruce says darkly, a warning of what’s to come in his tone. “They’ve been deleted. I want to know why you thought it was a good idea to do so.” 

Jason bristles, arms unfolding to catch anything that might come his way. 

“I’m sorry, what?” Jason snaps. “You want to show some proof to that statement, because I’m telling you now, I didn’t do shit.” 

“Of course. You probably had someone else do it,” Bruce hums in agreement, brushing aside Jason’s denial. “Roy Harper, perhaps? He’s the only contact you have that would be able to even begin hacking the database. And the system logged an intrusion last week, localised to Gotham. I understand Arsenal is currently residing in Gotham, is that not correct?” 

Something hot flares in Jason’s chest, lodged between despair and rage, he’s not sure quite what. Perhaps if he could see past the haze of red beginning to pound in his vision he’d be able to examine it with the cool rationality Bruce employs. But he’s not Bruce; he’s Jason Todd, and the man who sliced his throat open and left him for dead on a rooftop is _ threatening _ the one friend and ally Jason has on his side. The ease with which Bruce underestimates him while at the same time accusing his friend is painful to swallow, but Jason’s real focus lies on his fight or flight response. Both choices aren't going to end well. 

“Bruce-” Tim pipes up, and Jason’s temper flares. 

“Why on earth do you even keep files about me anyway?” Jason snaps. “It’s not like you give a damn about my stellar health, so what, you keeping tabs on me to take me down?” 

Bruce stares him down, straightening to his full height, every muscle in his body coiling to strike. “Of course. I’ve kept everything about you since you first came to the Manor.” 

Jason feels the world fall from beneath his feet, the bravado and spite shattering. He doesn’t hear what Damian says to make Dick hush him, or see the way Tim has gone ashen. He knew, logically, that this was just how Bruce was. The man created files on everyone with the intent to use them to his advantage at any given moment. 

That wasn’t what devastated him.

_ I’ve kept everything. _

The man swore he would never tell anyone, much less write it down in his records. He remembers the gentle way Bruce had tousled his hair, assuring him it would stay just between them. He’d looked him right in the eye and lied through his fucking teeth. And Jason being a stupid, love-starved child had believed him. Trusted him to keep that intimate part of his life private. He’d handed over that ammunition because he’d thought Bruce respected him, _ loved _ him enough to not betray that. 

Jason wishes he’d worn his helmet, because his eyes are burning and he isn’t sure if his face is hot because he’s so angry or if the shame blossoming in his chest is colouring his skin. He was so stupid, so blind.

This is not how he thought the evening would go. Bruce yelling at him? Sure. Bruce getting angry about his activities outside the Narrows? Definitely. Bruce blaming him for something he really shouldn’t have to take the fall for? Obviously. Bruce filing away the fact he withstood being raped repeatedly to survive Gotham’s failure of a society as a weakness to _ exploit? _

He needs to leave. Now. 

“Where do you think you are going?” Bruce sounds dangerously close to shouting.

“Away from here.” His breath hitches and he swallows against the lump in his throat that’s growing thicker by the minute. His vision blurs dangerously, and Jason hurries his step, but it’s not fast enough. Bruce’s fingers close like a vice on his arm, the armored gauntlet bruising as he yanks Jason around to face him again. Manhandles him like some sort of misbehaving child.

“Let go of me!” he snaps, panic raising his voice an octave. 

Someone makes a noise of protest in the cave; it sounds suspiciously like Tim, who has already started coming from around his workbench, while Stephanie is striding forward as well, her eyes wide as she tries to intercede. Dick is frozen in place, unable or unwilling to intervene because of fucking course he’s on Bruce’s side. Always has been, always will. 

“Bruce, stop!” 

Tim’s voice is faint against the scuffle Jason tries to put up, but he still hears it nonetheless, suddenly aware that he’s horrifically outnumbered on the Bat’s home turf. It’s enough of a distraction to give Bruce the upper hand. 

“You’re going to take a physical to replace the data,” Bruce tells him, and Jason can barely make out the words through the rising anxiety. Bruce shakes him hard, throttling him to keep from struggling when Jason doesn’t immediately concede. His arm aches, pinned in that gloved grip. Trapped. 

Bruce’s head tilts towards the medbay, a scowl cracking deep lines between the space of his stern brow. “We’re going to catalogue all your injuries and medical conditions. You’re not going anywhere until it’s done.” 

Jason’s heart hammers against his ribs, adrenaline rising through his bloodstream until he feels like he could burst. The idea of even losing one stitch of clothing in this cave makes his skin crawl just as much as it did to undress for his johns. It’s unthinkable to let himself be vulnerable to anyone like that again, much less Bruce. 

Jason’s punched plenty of people before. Slapped? Not so much. Perhaps that’s why Bruce doesn’t see it coming. The sound of flesh meeting his palm echoes through the cave, deafening. Bruce’s head snaps to the side, spit spraying from his slack jaw to leave a sharp pattern on the stone floor. The handprint blooms instantly over his cheek, angry and brutal. Jason hopes it bruises. He hopes it_ hurts. _

No one says a word.

Stephanie stumbles into Tim, both of them stopping abruptly when they clash. Damian is frozen where he is on the railing, disbelief flickering over his face. Jason doesn’t know what he looks like right now, but Damian is hesitating to come closer so it can’t be anything good. Dick looks gobsmacked, opening his mouth to say something. Jason can’t take another sanctimonious lecture right now, especially from Goldie, of all people. The anger feels good, almost comforting, as it floods his chest. Giving him a much needed boost of strength, of conviction. 

Jason doesn’t even recognize his own voice, his hand shaking with rage as he yanks the high collar of his shirt down. “All my injuries, huh? Why don’t you start with this one you _ fucking _hypocrite.” 

Bruce stops breathing. He looks as though he’s been slapped again, the fire in his eyes stuttering out in cold dread. Taking advantage of the moment of weakness, Jason rips his arm free with little difficulty and back peddles out of his reach. He stumbles down the metal stairs, unsure how he even makes it to the bottom in one piece, every harsh ring of metal against his boots stabbing the betrayal deeper into his consciousness like a nail into his broken heart. 

He bumps into his bike, unable to stem the venom lacing through his words when he turns back to bellow at the vigilantes still frozen on the deck. “You should have left me in that fucking alley, Bruce! It would have been a kinder way to die.” 

He starts the bike and revs it, drowning out any opportunity for Bruce to call after him. It’s too little, too late and Jason isn’t sticking around any longer. He never should have come tonight. 

It’s only when he bursts out into the night air and onto the open road that he realizes his cheeks are wet. 

* * *

Tim is sick with worry and guilt as he swings through the Narrows, the shadows haunting him. He’d found Jason’s bike crashed into an alley a few blocks back, but there was no sign of the red helmet or the vigilante. His chest feels too tight, every breath pressing a bruise against his sternum. This is his fault, and he’s not sure what he’s going to do to fix it. There are things that need to be said, transgressions to apologize for, and Tim can only hope that Jason doesn’t actually murder him before he gets the chance. Or do something worse before Tim can get to him. 

This wasn’t what he’d wanted. This wasn’t what he’d _ intended. _ Tim had just wanted to help, to give Jason the privacy he deserved. He hadn’t meant to provoke Bruce, to pin the blame on Jason. He hadn’t known _ that _ was Bruce’s intention when he’d called them all to the Cave. That Tim would have to bear witness to Jason’s humiliation and degradation. 

_ No wonder he hates me__,_ Tim thinks miserably. _ I’m as much a fuckup as he thinks he was. _

He’d wanted to scream at Bruce the second Jason had gotten away. If he hadn’t been so worried for the other man’s safety, he would have. Instead Tim had torn off after Jason as quickly as he could start his Redbird, scared that if he didn’t find him- 

He has faith in Jason that he has truly changed, but on the off chance he’s wrong, that Tim’s miscalculated Jason’s recovery, he doesn’t want all that progress ruined because of his own mistake. They all still don’t know quite how much the Pit affects him anymore, but Tim knows that extreme emotional distress could trigger an episode, possibly. This qualifies. This _ more _ than qualifies. 

He doesn’t want Jason living to regret another outburst like he regrets it every time he touches the scar on Tim’s neck. 

_ Please, please let me find him, _Tim begs silently as he swings between buildings. 

The scent of tobacco is so faint he nearly misses it, his line swinging him past the lower rooftop in a blur. It’s the same scent as cigarettes sold at a particular bodega near the strip club, distinctly Turkish. It’s embarrassingly hard to circle back around the building when his hands are shaking so bad that holding a grapnel hurts, but Tim forces himself through the ache. Scans the uneven cluster of rooftops until he can spot the familiar figure cut against a weather-worn gargoyle. 

Tim’s heart leaps into his throat, worried that Jason may bolt if he lands without warning. He perches on the rooftop one building over, tentatively peering down at him. Jason’s imposing figure is a shell of itself, sagged against the gargoyle’s sturdy side. Several cigarette butts are stubbed out on the eaves nearby, a freshly lit one dangling from his limp fingers.

Shame bashes against Tim’s senses when he catches the faint hitch of Jason’s shoulders, so broad and yet still vulnerable. 

The look on Jason’s face is one he’ll never forget as long as he lives. Grief, betrayal, shame - Tim feels his eyes burn at the edges and he blinks rapidly to clear his vision. He was privy to the reason for his reaction, and all he could do was stand there stupidly frozen. He should have done something, stood up for him. Instead he’d just clammed up, watching tears slide down Jason’s flushed cheeks, mesmerized in his horror. 

Just like he’s doing now. He shakes himself, steadying his nerve. He alights on the roof, making enough sound to alert Jason, but he doesn’t come any closer until he’s given permission. Like a hurt animal, he knows Jason might lash out and he doesn’t want to give Bruce any more ammunition to use against him. Jason’s shoulders lock up, his entire body tensing with them. 

“Come to collect me, old man?” Jason sounds like the whisper of wind through a torn down building, hollow and shredded. He doesn’t turn around and Tim jumps a little at the epithet, at the raw hatred in that tone. Of course he wouldn’t expect him, and without the helmet on he has no way of knowing. “You just _ try _ and touch me again-”

“It’s me!” Tim blurts, gasping. 

Jason spins sharply, wide eyes drinking him in as he frets on the concrete, unsure whether to retreat or approach the shaken man. He visibly relaxes when he realises it’s not Bruce, but tenses again almost immediately when he takes in Tim. Though not to the degree he had been earlier. His discomfort is still clear as he shifts back to his cigarette, refusing to turn and meet his gaze. Tim feels like an intruder, more than stalking the man across rooftops as a teen had ever felt. 

“What do you want?” Jason murmurs, before his tone turns scathing. “Wait, let me guess. You want me to go back there and apologize, and do whatever the hell he wants-” 

“No!” Tim shakes his head violently. “I wanted to make sure you were okay. Bruce… Bruce was wrong. I’m sorry. I should have stopped him.” 

By now, Jason is peering over his shoulder at him owlishly, his teal blue eyes red rimmed and puffy. He seems startled at Tim’s declaration. 

“Why.” He sounds as lost as he looks. 

“Because that’s what we do,” Tim replies quietly, throat tight. “Stop people from getting hurt. He was hurting you and it was wrong, Jason. Please believe me when I say I’m on your side.”

Jason’s eyes practically glow as fresh tears well. He blinks when he averts his gaze, sending them streaking down his shame-tinted cheekbones. It speaks volumes to how badly shaken he is right now to show so much to Tim, especially given how prickly he was before to him. He turns away but he doesn’t try to leave, and Tim takes it as the most permission as he’s going to get. 

Tim edges closer, until he’s finally able to kneel next to him, broadcasting his movements slowly and openly. He can’t deny how much all of him thrums with the urge to touch Jason, to comfort him, and suddenly he hates the distance between them, despises how Jason twitches at his very presence. Abruptly, Tim is aware of the fact that he’s not scared of the man. 

“Jason-” 

“You shouldn’t be here,” Jason mutters, before adding, “He’ll just throw you out too.”

Tim winces, but presses on. 

“Jason, I’m not letting Bruce dictate who I help,” he tries, tentatively touching his shoulder. When he isn’t immediately shoved away, he gives him a gentle squeeze. “What can I do?” 

“There’s nothing you can do.” Jason sounds hollow as he says it, bringing his cigarette to his lips. It’s half burned away now, the thick ash dropping between his knees. The cherry glows as he inhales, holding it for a count of three and then exhaling slowly. Tim says nothing more till the man is done with his smoke, flicking the butt over the roof’s edge and into the street below. “He’s never going to-” The man stops, breath hitching. 

Tim doesn’t know what comes over him. It’s Arkham-level crazy, practically suicide. But he knows one thing; when he was spiraling, adrift and alone, nothing made him feel anything except... 

He throws his arms around Jason’s neck and shoulders, bracing himself to be punched or stabbed or both - he can take it, for Jason’s sake - but a hug is what he’d needed, and it stands to reason that Jason needs one just as much right now. 

The older man stiffens like a board under his touch, so unlike the pliable heat he’d been for Teddy. It hurts, but Tim is used to rejection. He’s built a career on it. 

“He was wrong,” Tim says as clearly and firmly as he can manage, nauseatingly aware of how open his sides are right now. How easily it would be to slide a knife or a bullet between his ribs. How _ bare _ his is to Jason right now, how vulnerable. Almost as vulnerable as the man himself. “Bruce was wrong, and he had no right to do that to you.” 

He sucks in a shaky breath, feeling it echo back through Jason’s chest when he does the same. Tim pulls back to meet his gaze, and then forces himself to arm’s length. Maintains the distance that _ Timothy Drake _ deserves, even if he wants the intimacy Teddy and Jason share. 

“But it’s not about right and wrong. I’m here for _ you. _ I want to make sure _ you’re _ okay, Jason. Any way I can.” 

Jason blinks at him, growing less and less uncomfortable with the proximity the longer Tim hovers. “Thanks, I guess,” he entreats hollowly, and turns aside to stub the butt, breaking the tentative hold Tim has on his shoulder. “But I’m fine, replacement. I’ve been on my own before, and I’ll be on my own again. I can pick myself up now.” 

“You don’t have to,” Tim blurts before he can curb it, and Jason fixes him with a stare that makes Tim squirm. He forces himself to unwind, to coax Jason out of his defensive brace. “I just mean- You’re not on your own in this. I’m here to help. I’m here for _ you, _ Jason.” 

“How do I know you’re not just spying for B?” Jason grumbles, tone suddenly low and spiteful. 

It hurts as much as a knife would, nestling beneath Tim’s ribs and aching when he inhales, a cold and heavy weight. “You can trust me,” he offers solemnly, holding Jason’s gaze. “I’m not here for Bruce. However you want me to prove that, I will. I’m not here to spy on you. I’m here to make sure you’re okay.” 

He can practically see the way Jason curls in on himself, how he pulls his distrust over himself like a shield. “I’ll believe it when I see it,” he mutters, and fixes his gaze on the worn stone. 

Tim watches him for a moment longer before he shifts back into a sit. He knows when a tactic isn’t working, and he doesn’t _ want _ to approach Jason with tactics, read him like a game of chess. He yearns for the easy connection Teddy shares with him, the natural connection between them. But he’s not Teddy right now and Jason doesn’t trust Tim, so he has to live with that. 

So he’s forced to approach him like this, like Jason’s some violent beast, like he could lash out at any moment. Edging around his triggers, preparing for his inevitable temper. All of a sudden Tim feels like Bruce, cold, clinical and callous, and his stomach rises in his throat. 

He can’t be Bruce. Not now, not ever. He knows where that path leads, has seen where it will take him. Knows he’ll lose Jason before he’s even really got him. 

So he does what Bruce has refused to. Tim takes a leap of faith. 

“I deleted the file,” Tim says, eyes on the brick between his feet. 

Jason’s head snaps up. “What?” And then, in a whisper that yanks the air from Tim’s lungs in a tingling exodus, “_Why?_” 

Tim swallows and looks up. What he sees makes his heart break. 

“I didn’t mean for this to happen. I didn’t. But it’s my fault that Bruce yelled at you, that he- I’m sorry,” Tim says. “I’m so sorry, Jason.” 

“Why would you do that? Why would you delete my file?” 

“Because he didn’t deserve to have it,” Tim retorts, and his harsh words surprise even him. There’s a well of rage beneath the cold chunk of ice lodged in his ribcage, burning through slowly but surely. “It didn’t serve any purpose but to _ hurt _ you, and I couldn’t- I couldn’t let him hurt you. You don’t deserve that. You deserve _ better than that_.” 

“Replacement, that’s-” Jason clears his throat, swallows in a way that looks uncomfortable. It dawns on Tim then that no one in the family has once told him that. “Tim. That was really… Thank you.” 

Tim shakes his head. “Don’t thank me. I don’t deserve it. I got you into this mess. I started this fight between you and Bruce-” 

Jason snorts bitterly. “This fight’s been going on between me and Bruce for a while, replacement. I don’t think you can blame yourself for starting it.” 

“But I did, didn’t I?” Tim snaps, glaring at his clenched fists. “I started this whole fight, way back when I became Robin. When I _ stole _ Robin from you.” 

“You thought I was dead,” Jason says, and he sounds tired. “It was there for the taking. Fair game, replacement.” 

“Replacement,” Tim echoes, and it slides into his tight throat like another knife. Jason winces in unison. “You agree. I didn’t deserve Robin, I didn’t_ earn _ it like you did, or create it like Dick did. I just pulled on your boots and carried on like nothing happened.” 

Tim can see Jason’s chest clench at the words, a repetition of what he’s probably told himself a thousand times over. Then he says, soft and quiet, “You didn’t mean to. You didn’t know. None of us knew. That didn’t make it right, but the blame doesn’t rest with you.” 

Tim glances up, searches those dark eyes. “With Bruce?” he asks, and Jason nods, jaw tight. Tim lowers his gaze again. “He was a wreck without you. I just wanted to put Batman back together again. I can see how selfish that was, from your perspective. But he’s not the Batman he was anymore. I’ve _ seen _ how he acts, I’ve seen what he’s done to you, and that-” Tim drags in a rattling breath. “It’s unforgivable what he’s done to you.” 

“It’s just a file, Tim,” Jason mumbles. 

Tim’s eyes flash. “No, it’s not. It’s not just the file. It’s how he treats you now, like a second rate citizen. Like he doesn’t even know you. How he can do something like _ this_,” Tim snarls, and yanks his own collar down. Jason blanches at the sight of his old wound, and the flesh prickles beneath his gaze, “to his own son.” 

“_I _ did that to you. I deserve-” 

“You didn’t know me,” Tim overrides him, furious. “He’s your _ father, _ he should know better. He should _ be _ better. You deserve better from him.” 

“It’s bygones, Tim. He’s never gonna take me back.” 

“No,” Tim snarls, and shoves to his feet. Jason follows his ascent with a frown. “No, he’s not getting away with this. I’m gonna- he has to apologize to you. I’m going to _ make him _ apologize to you.” 

“It doesn't matter-” 

“It does. It matters to you. So it matters to me. You deserve an apology, Jason. For how he treated you back there. For how he treats you now. For how he’s been treating you for years. You _ deserve an apology. _ And I’m going to get it for you.” 

Jason’s mouth opens and closes a few times as Tim comes down from his dizzying rant. Then his features soften. “It’s not gonna make a difference, Tim. It’s not going to change his mind about me. There’s no place for me with him. Tonight proved that.” 

“Bullshit,” Tim snaps. “_Bullshit. _ I know what he was like when you died, Jason, I _ saw _ it. I know better than Dick or Damian or anyone what you mean to Bruce. And if he’s too much of a coward to admit it, he’s going to lose the most important person in his life.” 

Tim fixes Jason with a pointed glower. 

“He doesn’t deserve you. But he _ is _ going to apologize to you, regardless. And if _ you _ want him back in your life after that, that's up to you. And I’ll do whatever it takes to make that happen.” 

Jason stares at him for a long moment. Then he laughs, wet and choked. “Jesus, you’ve got balls, repla- Tim. You’ve definitely filled those pixie boots, kid, I’ll give you that.” 

“I’m not joking,” Tim says sternly. 

“I know,” Jason replies. “But I don’t know if it’s really possible to make that happen.” 

“Because you don’t want it to happen, or because you don’t believe it can happen?” 

“No one cares what I want, Tim.” 

“I do. I care what you want. I want to help you with this, Jason. Please.” 

Jason snorts and fishes out another cigarette. “You’re too much of a good Samaritan, kid. It’s gonna get you killed one day.” 

Tim shrugs. “Survived you, didn’t I?” 

Jason grimaces at the memory. “About that-” 

“I don’t need your apology,” Tim interrupts. “Thank you, for trying. But I don’t need you to apologize. I know why you did it. I know you were wrong. _ You _know you were wrong. Let’s leave it at that.” 

“Sure,” Jason mutters sullenly. Tim’s chest aches at the resignation in that tone. 

He didn’t come here to make Jason feel worse than he already does. He wanted to apologise, to remind Jason that he’s not alone in his fight, that he’s not the only one who disagrees with Bruce’s methods and means sometimes. 

“_Fuck _ him,” Tim says quietly, the disgust trickling into his tone. 

Jason jerks, nearly knocking his head into Tim’s as he turns to stare at him, mouth open and eyes wide. The cigarette flakes in his grip as he assesses him, analyses his sturdy expression. Tim returns his gaze levelly, not budging. 

“You,” Jason tries, before he swallows thickly, sarcasm barely hiding the vulnerable layer beneath it. His lips curl as he lifts the cigarette, hiding his misstep behind an aura of vague nonchalance. “You said a swear.” 

“I’ll say a few more, to his face,” Tim tells him, trying not to sound desperate. His heart soars when Jason relaxes next to him, the laces binding his chest tight unravelling when one hand tentatively comes to rest against Tim’s forearm. The motion’s absent, muscle memory; like he’s not even aware he’s doing it, he’s that comfortable around him. He doesn’t squeeze or shove him away, and it gives Tim some glimpse of hope that he’s getting through to him. 

“Don’t.” Jason shakes his head. “I’m not- it’s not worth the trouble, trust me.”

Tim decides he’s going to take a few days after this case is over and really ruin an entire week of Bruce’s life. He’s not sure how yet, but he’ll come up with something when he’s had some rest and the headspace to plan. 

Revenge is one thing. Actually moving on and mending your life is another. The two paths aren’t always congruent. Jason’s a glowing example of that. Tim knows which one he needs right now. 

“Do you actually want to work with Bruce?” he asks, and feels Jason stiffen beside him. It makes the muscles down Tim’s back coil in apprehension, but he shoves the old feeling down. 

He glances up, meeting that caged gaze and tight jaw. He thinks he knows the answer already - both the reflexive one and the genuine one. Tim, who has followed around people with secret identities for the better part of two decades, knows what a contradiction looks like when he sees it. 

“If you want to work with Bruce again, I can make it happen,” he offers solemnly. “But only if you want it to.” 

Jason opens his mouth, grip tightening around his cigarette, and Tim overrides him, just this once. 

“You don’t have to answer me now. And you don’t have to justify your answer when you do. Just know that if that’s something you want, I can facilitate. Extend the olive branch, as it were.” 

Jason’s next words are harsh to match the dark flash in the depths of his blue eyes. “And if I don’t want to ever see his pathetic face again?” 

Tim takes that in stride. “Then I’ll make sure he doesn’t come near you again. You can leave him behind, forever, if that’s what you want.” 

The larger man draws in a shaky breath, withdrawn to his own thoughts before he turns aside and snubs the cigarette on the concrete. 

“But,” Tim adds softly, and holds his gaze when he looks up, “I know what kind of catharsis reconciliation can bring, if you’re open to it. Not for his benefit, but for yours. Whatever form that reconciliation takes, we play by your rules. I’ll make that happen.” 

Jason studies him for a long time, drags his gaze down through the mires of Tim’s history until he can feel it scraping his bones. Tim’s not a perfect person, but he knows himself well. Knows how poisonous bitterness and rage and regret can be in a man. Tim’s got experience mending poisoned men. 

Then Jason looks away, posture unwinding with whatever he’s found in Tim, and he’d like to think it’s companionship. Maybe not to the depth or the genuity Tim wants them to be at, but he’s taking Tim’s suggestions on board, and that’s enough for Tim right now. 

“Don’t know if I can work on the same team as someone who’s tried to kill me, Tim.” 

His words are lighter, eased by the weight of contemplation. He’s digesting, which is as good a sign as any. Tim can recognise an attempt to pull up into more casual conversation, so he rises with it. 

“Oh gosh,” Tim drawls, lips quirking in the beginnings of a sarcastic smile. “Wonder what that’s like.” 

“We haven’t worked on a team,” Jason points out. 

“We haven’t tried,” Tim retorts. “Maybe we should. I can give you a few pointers for how to face the guy who took a piece out of your neck. How you can come to terms with that, for your own betterment.” 

“Got some hot tips, do you?” Jason asks with a roll of his eyes. It’s not nearly as scathing as it used to be. 

“No. But I’ve got experience. If you _ want _ to work with Bruce again, I can show you how to mend that relationship. And if you don’t, I’ll delete every file in his database until he gets the message that you’re off limits. Until he understands what he’s losing by treating you this way. You don’t owe him a damn thing. But if you want him in your life, I’ll help you get that.” 

Jason nods slowly, feels his promise out. “Sounds like you’re already on my side.” 

“I am,” Tim tells him, and it’s the most sincere he’s felt in a long time. So he tries for one more leap of faith. “We would make a good team.” 

“Yeah, I’d… I’d maybe like that.” 

Tim nods, doesn’t acknowledge the way his chest clenches with unbounded joy at the prospect. 

When Jason finally moves to pull away, Tim lets him go, scooting back to give him space. They both stand and no longer is Tim on equal footing. The older man looks down at him, face passive but with a hint of mild curiosity. 

“I’ve… gotta go,” Jason says uncomfortably. “My case-”

Tim pauses as Jason bends down to scoop up his helmet. “Can I help?” 

Jason is frowning at him when he comes back up, and Tim forces himself to shrug casually. 

“It’s as good a place to start as any. If you do want me to help you, want me to… to have your back, I can help you with your case.” He latches onto the only lead he’s got, the tenuous connection Red Robin shares to this case, the only in he has with Jason. “I met a man, in a graveyard, the other night. His partner was killed by this mob, at your club. Steph told me some of the details. I think I could help.” 

He doesn’t ever expect it to be enough to persuade Jason. Not when their truce is so tentative and young, so he’s unsurprised when Jason sweeps him with a scrupulous glance. 

“I promise, I won’t get in the way,” Tim adds. “I just think if we work together, we can solve it faster before anyone else gets hurt.” 

Jason scowls. “Even the perp?” 

“Huh?” Tim blinks as Jason steps up close to him, towering. The other man is looking positively thunderous, demeanour switching like a sudden storm on the Gotham horizon. 

“The person responsible? I’m not going to go easy on them. They’ll be lucky if I leave enough of them left to bother with tossing them in the bay.” Jason growls. 

Tim’s moral fibers ache, something sinking in the pit of his stomach like a lead bullet. 

“I can’t do that.” Tim says at last. Jason’s lip curls up, a scoff blowing past his clenched teeth, and Tim can practically feel their newborn truce crumbling before his eyes. “I can’t kill.” 

“Then you can’t help me.”

“Just don’t make me see it.” Tim said quietly. “If I see it, I can’t ignore it. Whatever you do-” He swallows back the thought of Jason with blood on his hands, that Pit green raging in his eyes. “Whatever you decide to do, whatever the Red Hood needs to do to solve this case, don’t involve me in any killing. I’ll help you with anything else.” 

Jason’s brows shoot into his hairline, his fists unfurling. “That’s a lot of faith to put in me, replacement.” 

“Tim,” he reminds him gently, and lifts his gaze to meet Jason’s steady blue orbs. “And I trust you Jason. Even if you don’t trust me. I have for a long time.” 

Jason stares at him for a long moment, before he shakes his head in dumbfoundment, a laugh wheezes through his grimace. “I tried to kill you, Tim. I don’t understand how you can just _ forgive _ me like that.” 

“Because I’ve seen who you’ve become,” Tim answers, unwavering. “I’ve seen what you do for Gotham. More importantly, I’ve seen what you do for the people of Gotham, each and every person you help. You _ change _ them, Jason. Make them better than they were.” 

A hand lifts to scrub the back of Jason’s neck, his wince a little bit more embarrassed than defensive. He won’t meet Tim’s gaze, his cheeks still flushed red. “I don’t know about any of that, Tim.” 

Tim smiles to himself, mirth warming his veins. “If you ask me, I think you’d make a pretty good Batman. Reckon you’d rock a cowl.” 

Jason startles and then snorts. It makes the last of the tension wash out of Tim, makes the corners of his lips curl to match Jason’s tentative smile. “I think you’d look terrible in scaly panties.” 

Tim clamps down on the urge to laugh, containing it to a grin. “Is that so?” 

“Yeah, don’t reckon you have the ass for it, replacement,” Jason teases, and it’s the most lighthearted Tim’s ever heard him say that epithet. 

He can’t help but smirk. “Agree to disagree.” 

“Good talk. Tim,” Jason adds pointedly, holding his gaze as he begins to backtrack across the rooftop. Tim can see the need to retreat in his posture, but it’s no longer desperate, no longer miserable. There’s an ease to him, and it warms Tim to think that maybe he’s even a little responsible for improving Jason’s night. 

He nods, chest lighter than it’s been all evening. “Jason.” 

Jason gives him an odd little smile then, before turning and shooting a line. It’s only once he’s swung away that Tim recognises it as his Robin’s smile. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song of the Night is “Who’s The (Bat)Man?” by Patrick Stump.

**Author's Note:**

> [Batsaboutbats](https://linktr.ee/batsaboutbats).   
[Meaninglessblah](https://linktr.ee/meaninglessblah).


End file.
